Enough of That
by Edward Carson
Summary: Troubled by Carson's behaviour, the Dowager intervenes. Subsequent chapters chronicle Carson's adjustment to a post-Downton life through conversations and interactions with Elsie, Robert, Thomas, Mary, and (eventually) Edith...! A POST-SEASON 6 story. This story offers an antidote to the journey explored in "The Way We Live Now," which ought to be read first.
1. Chapter 1: The Dowager's Diagnosis

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **The Dowager's Diagnosis**

The Dowager Lady Grantham hobbled into the library of the Abbey and her son, seated at his desk, rose to greet her with a smile and a kiss.

"Mama." He escorted her to the sofa and sat down beside her.

Barrow, who had brought her into the room, disappeared in pursuit of tea. Bringing the tea was a footman's job, but they were down to only one of those at Downton now, and Andy had not yet returned from an afternoon of helping Mr. Mason down at Yew Tree Farm. Barrow realized he was going to have to lay down the law about Andrew's second career.

By the time the butler returned with the tea tray, Violet Crawley and her son had dispensed with most of the perfunctory chit-chat about health and weather.

"Is it only to be us?" she asked, as Barrow arranged the tray and poured the tea. "Where is everyone else?"

"Everyone else is busy," Robert told her. "Thank you, Barrow."

Dismissed, the butler withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.

Staring thoughtfully at her son, Lady Grantham decided not to ask the next obvious question, which was why Robert himself was not also busy. She turned instead to what she believed was a related matter.

"Why do we never see Carson about?"

"You know why, Mama," Robert said, and managed to keep out of his voice that impatient tone people often took with old people who could not remember something they'd repeatedly been told.

She raised an eyebrow at him, indicating that she saw through his careful manner. "I understand that Barrow is the butler now, Robert. But I thought you had an arrangement with Carson that he was to be the senior butler and sort of oversee things?"

Robert stirred his tea. "Carson has not chosen to take me up on that, Mama," he said heavily. "Not yet, anyway."

"But...why?"

"Mama, the onset of this...impairment...has been a severe blow to Carson. It's taking him some time to get used to this...limitation of his abilities, and to accept his withdrawal from day-to-day management of the house."

"But it's been months, Robert."

Robert glanced away from her, a little annoyed at her persistence. "We must let Carson adjust to his new realities in his own time, Mama."

"It sounds as if he's not adjusting at all. Really, Robert. Why are we even speaking about this?"

"You tell me," he murmured under his breath, already seeing that she was not going to let it go.

"It's very frustrating, Robert," she went on. "Why must we go over the same ground time and again? Why can't you just learn the lesson and apply it?"

"I don't understand what you're talking about, Mama." He let a note of impatience filter into his words.

"Carson!" she said, with some exasperation. "You're treating him exactly the same way you did Mary after Matthew's death."

"I am not," Robert said indignantly. Apart from the fact that he disagreed with her, he also remembered that he had been proven spectacularly wrong with regard to Mary and he did not like to be reminded of it.

She glared at him sceptically. "Pastoral walks? The dog? Keeping him away from Downton? I hardly expected such defeatism from Carson - although I suppose his middle-class nature must out sometime - but you! This is quite unacceptable, my dear."

There was nothing more aggravating than an unjust accusation. "I'm _not_ keeping him away from Downton, Mama. He _stays_ away. I cannot force him to work. And he does not think himself capable of doing so. He can't manage many of the tasks associated with the role of butler. His tremors are unpredictable."

"Well, who needs a man with his experience polishing silver or pouring wine anyway?" she demanded. "Has he abdicated his responsibilities with regard to the wine cellar? That, after all, is a butler's first calling."

"He cannot handle the bottles, Mama. He's afraid of dropping them." Robert spoke more heatedly to his mother than he was in the habit of doing. She was, to his mind, being more than usually obtuse.

She made a dismissive sound. "He doesn't have to _handle_ the bottles to _order_ the wine," she said, making what she thought was an obvious point. " _That_ is where his expertise lies, after all."

"You are missing the point, Mama. He has lost his confidence and we must let him recover it in his own time."

"No, Robert! It is your job to help him win it back, not to undermine him completely by agreeing with him!"

Shaking his head, Robert stood up and walked over to the windows. Sometimes it was helpful to put a little distance between himself and his mother. "I'm afraid I don't really see this as my business."

She was, naturally and unsurprisingly, not at all put off by this pretension of disinterest on his part. "The last-ditch manoeuvre," she said scornfully. "When all else fails, claim lack of jurisdiction. _Of course_ it is, Robert. Our family has made a vast investment in Carson, professionally _and_ personally. He cannot just abandon us because his hands shake a bit."

Robert turned and stared incredulously. "Do you have _any_ idea what we are speaking of, Mama!" he snapped. "I've seen him. It is like an earthquake in his hand, his _right_ hand, when it comes over him. And he has no more control over it than we, any of us, have over a geological quake." He was angry with her for minimizing Carson's predicament and diminishing the distress Robert had observed in him when it occurred.

"Oh, Robert. Carson's not the first person I've ever known with the familial tremors."

"The...what?"

If she indulged in that vulgar affectation of rolling eyes in exasperation, she would have done it. "Don't you even know what he has?"

"Mama, _he_ doesn't know what he has!"

"He most certainly does, Robert. His father had it."

"And his grandfather," Robert added automatically.

"Exactly."

She'd distracted him. "What does that matter, Mama? It still means he can't do the job, or, at least, he cannot do the job to his own satisfaction."

"It means nothing of the sort. But the fact that Carson's withdrawn from Downton in this way tells me that he is wallowing in self-pity over it..."

"Mama..."

"And you are encouraging him in this." She held up a hand to arrest Robert's vigorous rebuttal. "There's no point belabouring the issue with you. You've had your turn and exacerbated the situation. I see that I must take a hand. Seriously, Robert, I don't know what you're going to do without me!"

Robert had not won an argument with his mother since he had decided to marry Cora. Although convinced that she was not only wrong but also brutally inconsiderate with regard to Carson, he thought it wiser to turn the conversation in a different direction.

"What would you suggest?" he asked, with cool politeness. Let her advance her own strategies that he might torpedo them.

"Give him something to do that will call forth his talents," she said swiftly. "Plan a great event."

She had made it easy for him. "The pressure of just such an event would aggravate his condition, Mama. It's likely to become more intense or occur more frequently when he is active. Rest is far better for him."

"Nonsense. What pressure! Carson could organize any formal affair short of a royal visit in his sleep!"

In some corner of his mind Robert wondered if his mother, or anyone else, ever thought him as as capable in his work as this statement suggested of Carson.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, still reserving judgment.

"Robert, we have a Marquis and a Marchioness in the family. Invite them to stay and throw a party for them."

"And what is Carson supposed to do when he cannot physically attend to the details?" How she could have missed this obvious point he did not understand.

"He doesn't have to _do_ anything. Robert, you run a major estate and I've never seen you drive a tractor, slaughter a pig, sheer a sheep, or cut a stalk of grain. It's called _management_!"

"It still takes a physical toll, Mama," he reminded her grimly, and then added, more quietly, "And I'm not doing much in the way of management these days."

She stared at him for a long moment, distracted. _That_ , she told herself, _was another matter_. One challenge at a time.

"Robert, you had your stomach cut out. Carson's hands are just shaking a little. He doesn't have to touch a dish or a bottle, or set the table, or write a place card in order to exercise his talents. He can _supervise_ it all. And when that's finished, he can take on the christening." She seemed infused with energy. "I shall summon him to the Dower House for a chat." She smiled. She enjoyed developing a good plan.

Robert could see that it had all unravelled beyond his control. But he did not abdicate all authority in the matter. "Mama, I insist you speak to Mrs. Hughes before you do anything. She would know better than anyone else the state of Carson's mind and whether this...scheme...may prove more damaging than helpful."

The Dowager looked up at her son in some astonishment. "Of course I will speak to Mrs. Hughes first! This is her husband and her life we're talking about, Robert. I would never transgress on a wife's territory without permission. Really!" She was affronted at the very thought.

Robert gazed at her with some ambivalence. He took a sip of his tea and wondered what Cora would say to that.

 **A Meeting of Minds**

Mrs. Hughes's professional duties rarely brought her into contact with the Dowager and she had always preferred it that way. Old Lady Grantham was her least favourite member of the Crawley family and this was saying something about a group that also included Lady Mary, although Mr. Carson had worn down the sharper edges of her attitude toward Lady Mary over the last little while.

She had never been to the Dower House and, contemplating the note that had arrived on her desk that morning and requested her presence sometime between tea and dinner at _her_ convenience, she was both puzzled and perplexed. Even the flexibility with regard to the appointment unsettled her - it was suspiciously considerate.

Mr. Spratt gave nothing away when he met her at the back door and led her through the house to Her Ladyship's sitting room. Mrs. Hughes was momentarily distracted. They saw very little of Mr. Spratt at the Abbey and no one really knew much about him. The revelation - gleefully imparted by that gossip monger Miss Denker - that Spratt was the face behind Cassandra Jones, the advice columnist and social commentator featured in the ladies' magazine owned by the Marchioness of Hexham (formerly Lady Edith Crawley), had astonished them all and given the butler a novelty value that had yet to wear off. This was not, however, the moment to inquire after his glamourous sideline.

The Dowager Lady Grantham was sitting in one of the easy chairs in her formal, if not entirely uncomfortable, sitting room. Although she greeted Mrs. Hughes in a courtly way, she did not invite the housekeeper to sit. Nor did Mrs. Hughes expect her to do so.

"Mrs. Hughes, I won't take up any more of your valuable time than I must," the Dowager began, coming straight to the point. "I've asked you here this afternoon to discuss Mr. Carson."

Mrs. Hughes, who sported a poker face the cardsharp Mr. Samson would have coveted, did not react to this surprising announcement. Perhaps she ought to have known. The only people over whom she and the Dowager might possibly intersect were Lady Merton and Mr. Carson, and the former had been existing in a state of bliss recently, leaving the rather more obvious problem of the long-standing butler at Downton Abbey.

"How is he?" Lady Grantham asked carefully.

"He is well, my lady." Until she knew where the Dowager was going with this, Mrs. Hughes had no desire to give anything away.

The older woman looked thoughtful. "I've begun badly. Let me be blunt, Mrs. Hughes. I have the impression that Carson has taken a setback in his health very much to heart and that he has given up any idea of remaining an active force at Downton. Is this true?"

Mrs. Hughes said nothing. She did not know how to respond without betraying her husband's confidence.

"Oh, dear me," Lady Grantham said, with some consternation. "We are not getting on at all."

This elicited a slight thaw in Mrs. Hughes's manner. "I'm not sure what you want from me, my lady."

The Dowager nodded. "Then let me put it to you, Mrs. Hughes. Carson has been a part of my life for more than sixty years. I remember him as a boy about the stables when I first came to Downton. I always liked him. He has given the best of service to my family, to my son especially, for half a century. I think he is troubled. I want to help him. I've asked you here to seek your permission to do so."

This impassioned statement was almost enough to rattle even Mrs. Hughes's famous aplomb. "I am...touched, my lady."

"Then may we put our cards on the table?" the Dowager asked, regaining a little of her crusty disposition.

Well, there was no point in denying that Mr. Carson was troubled. "You know of Mr. Carson's...condition, my lady."

Lady Grantham nodded. "I do. He has the tremors."

"Yes. And he believes that this has made it impossible to continue his work as a butler. So he has effectively resigned his position at Downton."

"Do you believe he is finished, Mrs. Hughes?"

"It doesn't matter what I think." Mrs. Hughes spoke sharply and they both recognized the worry behind her words.

"Tell me," Lady Grantham said encouragingly.

Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath. "He's lost his confidence, my lady." In for a penny, in for a pound. "I thought he would come out of it, eventually. When the earth settled beneath his feet and he realized how much he _could_ still do and stopped focusing on what he _could not_ do."

"And that has not happened."

"No. At first, he said he didn't want to step on Mr. Barrow's toes. He wanted to let him find his own way. And I couldn't argue with that, not strenuously anyway. He had a professional point."

"But there never came a moment when he felt it appropriate to venture back."

"No. I didn't think he really could stay away, especially with the generous offer from His Lordship and Lady Mary's determination that he should take it up..." Their eyes met over this. The Dowager nodded, understanding just how resistant Mr. Carson was being if he could deny this last inducement. "But..."

"Is he unhappy in his new life?"

Was there any point in denying it? "He is. And it...frustrates me, my lady." Mrs. Hughes had spoken of this a little with Mrs. Patmore, but somehow this conversation was proving a more effective outlet for her feelings. "This is usually the kind of problem I can solve."

The Dowager was sympathetic. "I can see that you've done your best, Mrs. Hughes. Would you approve of my making an attempt to bring him round?"

This, then, was the reason why she was here. Mrs. Hughes was more than surprised that the Dowager was bothering to ask permission. But she put aside this ungenerous thought in view of what she realized to be the sincerity of the offer. "I've no objection, no, my lady," she said cautiously. "Although perhaps you'll forgive my being dubious of your prospects for success."

Lady Grantham smiled confidently. "A man like Carson may dismiss the advice of his wife, Mrs. Hughes, no matter how much he loves her. But he won't ignore the voice of his superior. It is time to bring the crushing weight of tradition and deference down on him. It wouldn't work on just anyone, not these days. But I think we have a good chance with Carson."

The Dowager's emotional revelation of her own and her family's attachment to Mr. Carson had moved Mrs. Hughes. She had, frankly, never given the old bat much credit as a human being. For a moment she had doubted her long-held impatience with the indomitable old woman. This statement, however, brought her crashing back to England in 1926. Mrs Hughes would never, could never shake her rejection of the assertion of the "great divide" or her exasperation with the those among the aristocracy and their collaborators - like her own Mr. Carson - who conspired to maintain it. But there was the rub of it. She had grudgingly to admit that Mr. Carson's commitment to that very system made the Dowager's proposal a viable one. And it was certainly worth the effort.

"If you want my approval to make your own appeal to Mr. Carson, my lady, then you have it." Mrs. Hughes was nothing if not pragmatic.

Lady Grantham stood up and walked over to her writing desk. She picked up a small envelope and held it out to the housekeeper. "Could you please take this to him, then, Mrs. Hughes? It is an invitation to him to meet with me on Sunday afternoon."

Mrs. Hughes accepted the note.

"I wrote it in my own hand," the Dowager confided, beaming as if this were a great benefaction.

Mrs. Hughes managed not to roll her eyes. 'I'm sure that will mean something to Mr. Carson," she said evenly, wondering if the Dowager would ever realize how pompous she sounded. Again she pushed this compulsion to criticize from her mind. The older woman wanted to make Mr. Carson whole again, her desire to do so grounded in a respect for him that _had_ transcended the "divide." And so Mrs. Hughes met the eager gaze of the Dowager Lady Grantham and added, "And I thank you for it, my lady."


	2. Chapter 2: Loyalties

**Loyalties**

A summons to the Dower House did not raise Mr. Carson's hackles as it did Mrs. Hughes's, although it was almost as unique an event for him. He could count on one hand the number of times he had darkened the door. Nor did he approach the House with the degree of wariness Mrs. Hughes had taken with her. He did not know why the Dowager should have requested a meeting with him, but he and she were old allies in the struggle to maintain tradition and fend off change. And they had always got on.

Carson greeted Spratt politely but that always taciturn man seemed frostier than ever in his response. He met Carson at the door, escorted him into Her Ladyship's presence in the same sitting room in which she had seen Mrs. Hughes, and then withdrew, all in a morose silence. Carson was untroubled by this. The knowledge that Spratt was a contributor to Lady Edith's magazine had not impressed Carson, who believed that to do a job well one had to devote one's whole energies to it. As the column was apparently a wild success, Spratt's work at the Dower House must necessarily be suffering in consequence and Carson had no regard for that.

Her Ladyship sat at her writing desk by the window and turned immediately to greet her guest. His Lordship, her husband, had always kept servants waiting for a minute, as a subtle demarcation of rank. But Lady Grantham had never had time for such games.

"Good afternoon, Carson."

"My lady."

She stared at him for a minute as though she did not know him. On two days in 1925 - his wedding day and the day he and his wife returned to Downton from their honeymoon - she had seen him in what might be called 'civilian' clothing. Apart from these anomalies, she knew Carson only in a footman's or butler's livery and his appearance before her now in the soft grey suit, his black-grey hair tousled rather than slicked back, put her in mind of a green grocer or an excise man, and this took some adjustment.

She did not ask him to sit and he was glad of it. There were few enough places in their world these days where the rules remained unambiguous and this was one of them. This suited both of them.

"Thank you for coming."

He inclined his head. "I am at your service, my lady."

It was, she thought, a curious choice of words given the circumstances. "Are you?" she asked.

A puzzled look flashed across his face.

"I've not set eyes on you in months, Carson," she continued. "Lord Grantham tells me you are spending very little time at Downton."

"That is so, my lady." Their paths had crossed regularly in his lifetime at the Abbey, but they did not frequent the same places in the village now and chance had not brought them together there.

"Why is that?"

She seemed genuinely uncertain, though he knew she was in possession of all the facts of his departure. His respect for her was deeply ingrained and, unlike her son who had the prerogative of his relationship to her to cast aspersions on the sharpness of her mental faculties, Carson did not believe this was a manifestation of intellectual decay. He just did not understand why she was asking the question. But the only way could address it was by answering it.

"I have developed an infirmity that has impaired my ability to function effectively as the butler of Downton Abbey, my lady, and so I resigned my position."

"Yes, but I believe Lord Grantham has offered you a different position - as senior butler - which you have declined?"

"His Lordship has been very kind, my lady, but the idea was an unworkable one given the unpredictability of the...the tremors, not to mention the fact that my presence at Downton in any formal role would constitute an intolerable imposition on Mr. Barrow."

"Phffft." It was a most unladylike sound, but it effectively conveyed Her Ladyship's view of that remark. "As to that," she said crisply "we both know Barrow would not _have_ the position at all were it not with the understanding that you would continue there in this elevated position. There is no other reason to have brought him back. So let's not bring him into it. But I still don't understand, Carson. _Why_ have you rejected this new role?"

For decades Carson had felt an affinity for this woman, the only remaining connection to the world in which he had grown up; a direct link to the Fifth Earl, her husband, who had shown him great kindness; a firm ally in the battle against change. He did not want to discuss this subject with her or anyone else, but she had a lot of capital to draw on with him, so he exercised patience.

"You were there on New Year's Eve, my lady," he said quietly. He tried to maintain eye contact with her, though his impulse was to look away. "You saw in very practical terms my inability to perform my duties." The tremors in his hand had caused him to spill champagne all over the table. He had never felt so humiliated, although the reaction of the family and staff in the moment could not have been more considerate. Still the memory of it discomfited him and exacerbated the emotional edge on which he had existed from the moment he had recognized the shaking in his hand for what it was.

"And so you have withdrawn your services from Downton, and from the family in consequence?"

He thought this a peculiar way to put it. Perhaps it was his mood, but it seemed to him that she was unhappy with him and he could not imagine why. But Violet Crawley was never one to leave another in the dark for long. He nodded.

"I confess this leaves me feeling quite let down, Carson."

She might as well have slapped him, and he staggered a little under the impact of this statement. "My lady?" He was stunned.

"Yes, it seems to me poor recompense for all that we have done for you."

His jaw went slack. He could not believe he was hearing these words, especially from her. She did not give him the opportunity to put his astonishment into words.

"I suppose you remain fully aware of the privileges you have enjoyed at Downton?" While he struggled to find his footing in this conversation, she forged ahead. "You will recall that you were always a favourite of my husband, the Fifth Earl of Grantham."

"I..."

"He singled you out very early on as the lifetime working companion of our son. He even overlooked that questionable dalliance you had with the theatre to do so."

He hadn't even known that she'd ever been apprised of that brief detour in his past. His Lordship her husband had told him they would never speak of it again and they never had.

"His Lordship was intensely aware of the vital supporting role a skilled butler plays in a great house such as Downton. The ability to manage the staff, organize the various household functions, keep the accounts, stock and maintain an excellent wine cellar, know and observe the rules of society on formal occasions,...the list goes on...are all critical characteristics of an exemplary butler. And then there is the matter of personality, given the close association between the master and his butler. Finch served His Lordship for over twenty years in just such a capacity..."

"Mr. Finch was..."

"...and His Lordship saw in you the perfect complement to our son in a similar role."

He opened his mouth to speak but it was clear she was not interested in listening to him.

"To that end, Lord Grantham required you to serve in every male rank in the house that you might know first-hand and have personal experience with the demands of each. This was, of course, a critical element in the grooming process for the position of butler for which he intended you."

This litany of favours from a long-ago past unsettled him, though less so than the framework in which she had introduced the subject - that of his apparent ingratitude. Unable to challenge this unwarranted assertion without interrupting her, he fell back on a less obvious form of protest and, unconsciously, did something he had never done before in his life. He shifted impatiently on his feet. It was the indiscretion of a novice footman and he had come down like a ton of bricks on more than one young man who had signalled restlessness with a seemingly endless list of instructions in this way.

The Dowager was distracted. "What did you just do?" She had been speaking in a firm but not unkindly tone, but her voice now took on a sharper edge. He had done it in the presence of the only person in his world who would, of course, notice. And be offended by it.

"My lady?" For a moment they had, as she might have described it, 'stepped through the looking glass' into the past. She could not believe what she had seen. He responded automatically by feigning ignorance, that most annoying and transparent of ploys.

She gave him a long hard look that told him he had not fooled her. He did not expect to have done so. It had never worked on him either. But this was not the battle she wanted to fight and he, chastened by his own remarkable lapse, fell back into stillness. This left her free to continue where she had left off.

"I recall as well that, at the appropriate moment in your tenure as first footman, Lord Grantham sponsored you on a several months-long course on the Continent which involved apprenticeships at various wineries that you might develop your knowledge of wine production, storage, and preparation, as well as an appreciation for the different types and vintages. The purpose there was to facilitate your ability, once you had attained the rank of butler, to develop an outstanding wine cellar here at Downton and to ensure that the class of wines served at the table here were second to none. And that all came to pass."

"Yes, my lady." Although he was increasingly irritated by this conversation, his slight impropriety had put him at a disadvantage again.

"Did we not give you every opportunity to hone these skills by entertaining all levels of aristocratic society including even the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Alfred and his wife the Grand Duchess Marie Alexandrovna? Do you not remember presiding over arrangements for their visits to Downton?"

This had begun to get out of hand. Somehow Her Ladyship appeared to be suggesting that his professional training as a butler and the events at which he had exercised the skills he had learned had been undertaken for _his_ benefit. And what this had to do with her outrageous suggestion that _he_ was being selfish had yet to be explained. And he didn't really want even to hear her attempt to rationalize that injustice. He was beginning to wonder why he was still standing here.

"And despite all this, not to mention the investments of personal warmth and...and almost _familial_ concern extended to you over decades - not least with regard to your marriage last year - you have no qualms about abandoning this family and your duties to Downton because of a slight ailment? Where, may I ask, is your sense of loyalty?"

This was, to his mind, wholly uncalled for. "I have not and never will give to Downton anything but my best, my lady," he said heatedly, rattled by this singular critique. His allegiance to the family was beyond question. "But I can longer _do_ the tasks required of..."

"Oh, you are determined to enjoy your season of self-pity, aren't you?"

Months of anxiety, low-level depression, and sadness over the acknowledgment, acceptance, and implications of his infirmity had left Carson vulnerable in ways he had yet fully to appreciate. His weakened defenses gave way at this barb, and he broke.

"You have no right to speak to me like this!"

His voice, which he had only rarely raised in the execution of his duties over half a century, thundered in his ears and the echo of it there shook him to the core. His chest was heaving not only with the violence of his words but the horror that overwhelmed him at this breach of manners and unprecedented loss of control. He stepped back, unable for the moment to do anything else.

Lady Grantham, who might have risen in a righteous anger of her own at this violation of behavioural mores, retained her equanimity, although she looked a little saddened. "I've made you angry. Good. As difficult as it may be to believe, anger is the antidote to apathy."

This was one of those clever things she liked to say to demonstrate her wit and over the decades he had often smiled smugly as she deployed one of these fierce little verbal skewers against lesser foes. But he'd had enough here, both from her and himself. With visible effort, he corralled the churning emotions that had sparked his outburst, took several long, deep breaths to quell the turmoil in his chest, and cast his eyes in her direction, although he did not quite meet hers.

"Right. I cannot think this a very profitable conversation, my lady, and with your permission, I shall take my leave." There was a curséd tremor in his voice. The courtesy was perfunctory. His fists clenched painfully by his sides, he turned to go without awaiting her approval.

"Carson."

She spoke his name so tenderly that his heart skipped a beat, and his determination to get out of that room and that house as hurriedly as possible faltered. The habits of deference, even in the wake of this spectacular breech of them, still bound him. He stopped, put his head back in an effort to regain his equilibrium, and then half-turned toward her, meeting her gaze with eyes that reflected misery more than anger.

"Tell me," she said quietly, "why you are so convinced that this is the end for you."

He sighed, making no effort to disguise his exhaustion with this conversation. "I _have_ told you, my lady. I suffer from erratic tremors in my hand that make the myriad tasks of a butler increasingly difficult. I know it will only get worse. I've seen it before."

"In your father and grandfather."

"Yes, my lady."

"And it ended their working lives."

" _Yes_." He felt some relief. She appeared to have understood at last. Perhaps she might now retract the wholly unreasonable position she had taken and the harsh words that had accompanied it.

"Carson, your father and your grandfather were grooms, men whose work depended wholly on their capacity to do certain very physical things. You are different."

"I don't see how," he said flatly.

"Don't you? Anyone can be trained to pour wine or tea or serve at dinner. You yourself have cultivated those skills in dozens of footmen, some of them quite improbable candidates. Remember the one who dumped half a platter of lobster in my lap? What was his name?"

Carson remembered every serving error made under his stewardship at the tables of Downton Abbey. "Alfred, my lady," he said faintly, still playing catch-up with the direction of this conversation.

"Yes. Alfred. And where is he now? An under-chef at the _Ritz_. An ambition made possible at least in part by the training he received here under your supervision. Do you not see, Carson? Your value lies far beyond the elegant manner you have in the dining room or the practical functions of ensuring that the service is in good repair or, even, in guarding the precious silver and the family jewels in the butler's pantry. In your fifty years at Downton you have amassed a treasure trove of knowledge and experience that cannot be _replaced_ by a new man, however young or physically adept he may be."

"I do not see it, my lady." He spoke softly, still shaken by his own outburst. It was not like him, no matter what the provocation and this, combined with her aggressive assault on his character, deeply distressed him.

"Then let me explain it to you," she said briskly. "First, there is Barrow. He is a fine functional butler, but no more than that. Not yet. And don't tell me that he'll learn the craft as he goes along. You didn't. You served an intense apprenticeship. That kind of opportunity doesn't exist any more, but it doesn't need to. Barrow has a _master_ of the craft right here, in you. If he is ever to come up to snuff in the years ahead, years in which he will serve Lady Mary..." She paused and gave him a meaningful look. His affections for Lady Mary were a secret to no one. "...then you must educate him to that standard. The christening of Lady Mary's child offers you the perfect opportunity to begin. And then there is Mrs. Crawley."

"What? I mean...Mrs. _Crawley_?"

The Dowager heaved an exasperated sigh. " _La - dy Mer - ton_ ," she drawled disdainfully. "That is as difficult to get my tongue around as Mrs. Carson, but with the battle she had to get that title I'm afraid there will be no reprieve there. That fight is _quite_ beyond me. Yes, Carson. Lady Merton. What about _her_?"

As he had no idea why he was supposed to be concerned about Lady Merton, he could only gape at her in confused silence.

"They've no butler at all at Crawley House. She won't have one and _he_ , infatuated with her as he is, indulges her in this nonsense. Poor old Nevins was obliged to stay on at Cavernum with Lord Merton's disagreeable son. How can they possibly expect to entertain on any scale at all? She may not have appreciated it yet, but Lord Merton is a significant figure in the county and they will not be able to avoid formal occasions. You can't serve that crowd dinner on a tray. They'll have to do it with hired help, and you know what that means. Who better to sort out that chaos for Mrs. Cr... for Lady Merton than you?"

He continued to stare at her. This explanation had not restored his power of speech.

"Lady Merton is, of course, beyond the official realm of Downton, but she is a relative, Carson, and we all bear some responsibility for her welfare."

"My lady..." He didn't really know what he was going to say, but she hadn't finished yet anyway.

"And then there is Lord Grantham." She paused and for the first time since this tirade had begun, she appeared to falter. "For thirty years you have served my son exactly as his father, Lord Grantham, had hoped. You have so managed the affairs of his house that he has been able to give his full attention to the oversight of the estate, with all the responsibilities that position has demanded of him. You have, thereby, immeasurably lightened his load. You have provided support, advice, and companionship, and done so, I may say, in an exemplary fashion. He is at a crossroads, now, Carson, and he continues to need you."

He could ignore what she said about Barrow and dismiss her eccentric notions about Lady Merton, but he could not shut out her words about Lord Grantham, not least because they were true and because it was a relationship he had always cherished. He wavered.

"Finally..."

Thank God. There might be an end to this.

But now she hesitated. "...on a matter in which I have no right to speak save that vouchsafed me by our long and - I hope you will agree with me - warm association, I would encourage you to rethink your response to Lord Grantham's offer for the sake of Mrs. Hughes."

Her lyrical evocation of his bond to His Lordship had pierced his heart, but he tensed again at these words and his jaw clenched with resentment. She was right. She had no business here.

"I would only say," and her voice softened as she spoke, "that you have been so fortunate as to have found true love very late in life, Carson. Mrs. Hughes is a fine woman and she deserves the best of you. And that is not to be found in a man who would grow old before his time."

"I do not mean to dismiss or downplay your misfortune, nor to suggest that it has had no impact on you, but only to offer you some guidance in the management of it. I do so with the best of intentions. Please forgive me if I have overstepped the mark."

Silence descended on them.

Carson felt as if he had been put through the wringer and all he wanted now was to go home. He thought at this point she might not object.

"If that is all, my lady?" He was glad to hear that his voice had its normal firm timbre.

"It is." She picked up the little silver bell that stood on her desk and rang it. They neither of them spoke again until Spratt entered the room.

"Spratt, would you please see Carson to the door?"

The emotional tension in the room had eased but not entirely dissipated, and Spratt's gaze shifted nervously between them even as he nodded acquiescently and gestured toward the door.

"Good afternoon, my lady," Carson said, the calmness with which he spoke a contrast to his still-jangling nerves.

"Good afternoon, Carson."

.


	3. Chapter 3: Remedies

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **Chapter 3 Remedies**

She didn't know quite what to expect when she got home at the end of the day, but it was a little disconcerting to find nothing at all. There was no welcoming bark from Shep as she approached the cottage and neither husband nor dog within when she opened the door.

Still, she wasn't unduly worried. They would be along soon enough. In the meantime she would get dinner underway. Fortunately Mrs. Patmore had set aside a few things, as she usually did. Charlie was getting better at the preliminaries, but the expectation that his wife should prepare his dinner remained with him. And, of course, he'd done nothing at all this evening.

It was almost ready and she _was_ beginning to wonder just a little when the door opened and man and dog came in. Shep rushed to greet her, issuing his usual one-bark 'hello' and lashing her with his great feathered tail. She liked the dog. They'd had Scotch collies on the farm in Argyll, so he was a little reminder of her past.

She looked up to see her husband standing in the doorway.

""You're home early," he said, not unhappy, just surprised.

"Well, they don't really need me in the evenings, do they?" And she _had_ been a little anxious about his afternoon interview with the Dowager. His appearance distracted her. He was still wearing his good suit and it was quite rumpled. There was mud on his pant legs. "Where've you been?"

He shrugged. "Walking. I went down to Pipp's Corner."

"All the way down there! In those clothes? Charlie, why didn't you change when you came back from the Dowager's?" She didn't want to be reprimanding him, but she was a little exasperated. The suit would need a good brushing out and he didn't have a hallboy to do that for him anymore. He could, and would, do it himself but it was still something he ought not to be doing at all.

"I didn't come back until now," he said.

She didn't like the way he sounded, the distant and preoccupied notes in his voice. These could only be the result of his afternoon appointment. "So how did your conversation with the Dowager go?" she asked casually. They might as well get on with it.

He didn't look at her. "Badly," he said darkly. "Very badly." And he withdrew from the room.

She almost went right after him but she had to turn things down on the stove first. And then she heard his tread on the stairs and realized he was going up to change. "Oh, dear," she said to Shep.

When he descended a few minutes later, now attired in his more casual clothes, she met him at the bottom of the stairs and steered him gently into the sitting room. Shep stretched out at their feet as they sat together on the sofa.

"Tell me," she said, her perceptive eyes taking in the tell-tale signs of anxiety - his eyes shifting about the room, his hands flicking restlessly in his lap (though no tremors), his very position on the edge of the sofa.

"I don't know what came over me," he said in an almost hushed voice. "I ... completely lost my temper with her. The Dowager! I raised my voice. It was ... inexcusable."

Elsie doubted that. Moved by his very real distress, if not by the specific concern for it, she put a calming hand over his, though she was not quite as easy as her demeanour suggested.

"What did she say to you?" It was always better to have all the facts before reacting.

He shook his head. "Does it matter? There is absolutely _no_ excuse for intemperate behaviour. I felt like ... like _Daisy_." He said her name as if there were no more damning comparison. "Juvenile. Immature." He was disgusted with himself.

He was also avoiding the issue, focusing on himself and his reaction, rather than on what had actually happened. "We all have our moments, Charlie," Elsie said smoothly. "What did she say?"

"Oh." He waved a hand dismissively, as though this were mere extraneous detail. And yet his breathing accelerated and he flexed his shoulders uncomfortably and he did not look at her. "She ... reminded me of everything I owed to the family - training, advancement, and so on. Said I had let her down, was letting them all down, just so that I could feel sorry for myself." And then he turned abruptly and stared straight into her eyes, his own dark eyes clouded with hurt and ... uncertainty. "Do _you_ think I've been disloyal, Elsie?"

He was asking her that as if it were a legitimate question.

Although she knew she had to hear the conversation in its entirety before she leapt to judgment, it was difficult for Elsie to suppress her indignation. Count on the Dowager to twist a lifetime of service into a series of gifts bestowed by a benevolent master on a fortunate servant. Or to suggest that a man who had dedicated his life to her family's comfort was selfish for mourning his own very real misfortunes. And then to cut him to the quick by suggesting that _he_ of all people was disloyal! Elsie grasped from these assertions the approach the Dowager had taken and recognized it as consistent with the old woman's intent, but seeing the very real grief in her husband's face, she was not persuaded that it had been worthwhile.

Not yet anyway. She kept her temper and probed further.

"Of course not," she said crisply. "And after she said that, you shouted at her?"

"I did," he admitted heavily.

"I admire your restraint," she said drily. "I'd have thrown something at her."

Her impatience with the 'entitled' was an issue of long-standing between them and she was heartened to see a glimmer his old self asserted in a disapproving look.

"This is not a matter for levity," he said heatedly. "My behaviour was unforgivable." He seemed determined on this point.

"I'm not laughing. So tell me, was she only interested in maligning your character, or was there some purpose to all of this?" As she spoke, she reached up to him, running a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his face. Since leaving his employment at the Abbey, he had ceased to slick his hair every morning and she was glad of it. His hair, an attractive blend of black and grey, was very fine in texture, baby soft to the touch, and she loved the feel of it in her fingers. Stroking his hair was a benign yet for them also intimate gesture and she hoped to soothe him by doing it.

"She wanted to talk to me about His Lordship's offer to continue at Downton in some capacity. She believes that there is still a role there for me."

Elsie heard the hesitation in his voice. He could report the Dowager's words accurately, but he could not quite bring himself to accept the truth of them. It was not, she thought, that he did not want to do so, but more that he was so wedded to one conception of himself that he could not yet envisage another, even as the one he knew shattered about him.

"What did she have in mind?" she asked mildly.

He shrugged. "Oh, only what His Lordship had implied - supervision of grand affairs, mentoring Mr. Barrow in specialized areas such as the management of the wine cellars, making sure things are up to standard for Lady Mary..." He was reciting a list but this item prompted him to glance at her with slight apprehension. They had more or less come to terms over Lady Mary, but she could still be a sensitive topic for them. "...and ... something about Lady Merton."

He did not sound convinced, but she was impressed. The Dowager, she thought, had put some effort into this.

"And you disagree with her?"

He wouldn't quite admit to that. "It's not as simple as she makes out or as His Lordship might have hoped. In the moment we all grasped at it as the solution, but there is no workable reality to it. Mr. Barrow _is_ the butler at Downton Abbey and his authority must be absolute. I'm grateful that his assumption of the position has meant we can stay on the estate..." He paused. "Very grateful." And she heard in his voice the depths of that gratitude. Clearly the possibility that he might have had to leave Downton, where he had spent almost his entire life, was a prospect he had dreaded. "But it leaves no room for me. Barrow _must_ find his own way unimpeded. It's not fair to ask him to do otherwise."

These were the sentiments of the consummate professional, his regard for the position and its privileges superceding any prejudices he might have toward the man in it.

Elsie smiled at this, distracted by his determination to 'do things properly' or die in the attempt. But she came quickly back to the point. "Your consideration does you credit, Charlie, and I admire you for it. But the only person who can speak with authority as to what Mr. Barrow does or does not want or need is Mr. Barrow himself. And I'm not sure he wouldn't welcome some advice or mentoring from you. He's been trying very hard to do things just the way you always did them because he knows how much the family values you. And because he is as convinced as you are that _your_ way is the _only_ way. But he hasn't got your style and nor should he. You could, perhaps, help him to find his own style. And you do know things he doesn't," she added.

She wondered whether he was really hearing her.

"And where Lady Mary is concerned," she went on, "I think you owe it to Mr. Barrow to try."

"What do you mean?"

Of course, _her_ name had drawn his attention.

Elsie raised an impatient eyebrow at him. "You know exactly what I mean. The blessed Lady Mary has higher standards than the inhabitants of Buckingham Palace and that's a monster _you_ created, one you should take some responsibility for. Mr. Barrow wants to be a first-class butler. _You_ could help him."

He seemed perplexed and she understood, a little at least. He didn't know how to shift gears - an automobile analogy that Elsie found useful, although she had no direct experience with the reality - even if he wanted to do so. But there were ways to figure this out.

"Why don't you talk to His Lordship, Charlie? It was his idea to begin with. He wanted it to be so."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure that's so. He hasn't mentioned it in months." And a look of consternation crossed his face. "And will he speak to me at all after what I did this afternoon?"

That, as far as Elsie was concerned, was the least of any of these problems. "Of course he will," she said, almost scolding him. "He knows what she's like."

"She _is_ his mother, Elsie."

She decided not to dispute that with him. "Let's have dinner, Charlie. Mrs. Patmore sent along a nice steak and kidney pie." She hoped he would rise to that and demand indignantly the provenance of such a luxury in the servants' hall, but he did not.

He was subdued as they ate, as much as he had been these several weeks past. Elsie was disheartened by this. She supposed she'd allowed herself to be hopeful about the Dowager's intervention. Bless her if she hadn't fallen for that affected indominatability that had characterized the pre-war aristocracy who believed as an article of faith that they walked with God.

He didn't even enjoy their good dinner, pushing the food around his plate, although he issued token compliments about Mrs. Patmore's cooking. Well, Shep would do justice to the leftovers.

"Charlie," she said softly, when he finally gave up and folded his napkin on the table in anticipation of excusing himself. "Can you not tell me what's on your mind?"

He meditated on this for a moment. "His Lordship," he said finally.

Well, that wasn't what she expected to hear. "How so?"

He shifted in his chair as if uncertain. "She ... the Dowager ... she said ... she said I'd served His Lordship well for so long and that I might continue to do so. That...," he hesitated over this, "...he still needs me." He looked across the table at her and she, feeling a slight momentary thaw toward the old lady and her methods, smiled gently back at him.

"Surely you know that to be true, Charlie. You're his best friend."

"We are _not_ friends," he declared emphatically, shaking his head. It was his stock response to any suggestion of a relationship of equals with His Lordship.

But she wasn't going to let him get away with this tonight. "If that's not friendship, I don't know what is! In fact, I think it's much more than that."

When he looked uncomprehending, she threw down her own napkin in exasperation. "You've been telling me for years that they are your family and I, in my prejudice, dismissed that as a fancy. But they've convinced me that you were right. Your Lady Mary can't bear for you to get outside shouting distance. Your Lord Grantham comes to walk with you because he wants your company and needs your counsel. And the Dowager! Hectoring you like you were one of her own!"

"They pity me," he said stubbornly, although he didn't sound like he even believed himself.

"No, Charlie," she said, and the warmth she felt in the moment for the three Crawleys manifested itself in a sparkling smile, "they _love_ you. Each in their own way, to be sure, but that's love."

For a moment he seemed to be teetering on the brink of a decision. "So ... you think I should talk to His Lordship about ... Downton."

It was only what she'd already said to him, earlier this evening and at other points besides, but now she declined to lead him. "I'll not tell you what to do, Charlie. I think you know your own mind. And heart. You've got a great heart, as I'm in a position to know."

He helped her to clear the table and even dried the dishes, which she took as evidence that his mind was elsewhere as he did not always do so.

"I'll have to apologize to the Dowager," he said, in a surprisingly firm voice as they took a half-full bottle of sherry with them into the sitting room.

"Why?"

His disapproving glare made her smile despite herself.

"Because that's who I am."

Elsie put an arm through his. "I think she knows that, Charlie," she said. "It seems she knows you quite well."

She poured the sherry and they sat together on the sofa, sipping it.

"She said something about you, too," he said and smiled a little smugly at her surprise.

"I can't wait to hear," she said, almost sincerely.

He told her.

"My stars! I may have to say a prayer or two for the old dear!" And she was a _little_ touched, as well as again rather taken aback at the breadth of the Dowager's manipulative faculties. "Well, that's turnabout! Imagine you losing your infinite patience with the old dragon after half a century of provocation, and me entertaining warm thoughts about her!" She shook her head and took another sip of sherry. "I'll be happy enough when the world rights itself again and we can go back to our usual prejudices!"

He frowned at the word _prejudice_ , which is not how he would have put it.

"It was only a momentary lapse on my part," he said with some dignity.

She laughed. "I can assure you that favourable thoughts of the Dowager were only a momentary lapse on mine, too!"

It was a short evening for them. He drifted into a thoughtful reverie and she, hoping his mind and heart had turned in a more fruitful direction, did not disturb him. And she always enjoyed a quiet evening curled up within her husband's loving embrace. This was how she had imagined their life together.

And it gave her some time to consider the Dowager's confident assumption that a summons to duty and deference could make headway where love, plainly expressed, could not. It was just a little annoying that the old bat had been right.

They were both ready to retire early, the strains of the day having taking their toll. As they got into bed, he turned to her with a slightly agitated expression on his face and she wondered if he were having second thoughts.

"This has been a day unlike any other," he said, leaning forward while she fluffed up his pillows for him.

"Hasn't it," she agreed.

"No," he said, coming over troubled. "It's more than that."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated.

Goodness! she thought. He wasn't so reticent about proposing marriage!

"Do you know," he began haltingly, "in that moment, I wanted to tell her to ... to ... to bugger off!" ***** He spoke hesitatingly and yet almost defiantly, glaring at Elsie as if daring her to challenge him.

She stared at him for only a few seconds before bursting into laughter. She fell back on her pillows laughing so long and so hard that Shep came in to investigate, prodding her with his muzzle to prompt her to recover herself.

Charlie was rather more shocked. His discomfort with his own descent into crudity dissipated before his growing alarm over this very unseemly display on her part. And there were other people to consider.

"Be quiet!" he hissed. "We have neighbours!"

But she only laughed the more at this, the vision of the Barretts next door puzzling over this outburst of hilarity exacerbating her humour. He could only watch helplessly until finally this attack ebbed. And then she sat up, holding her stomach which hurt from the effort, to fix on him a look of mock indignation.

"I'm surprised you would know such a vulgar turn of phrase, Charles Carson!" And then she collapsed again in a slightly more moderate fit of laughter.

As almost always happened, her emotional excess spurred him to assume a more sober aspect. "I have been about," he said, affecting dignity. "I _did_ work in the theatre." This was the defense of desperation. He did not like to remind either her or himself of his past.

She managed to suppress a renewed outburst. "You may have 'talked to crowds,' Charlie, but I know you 'kept your virtue.'"

A low-level growl emanated from his chest. "So now you're using Mr. Kipling's words against me," he said with mild asperity. ******

"Not _against_ you, for goodness sake. It was a compliment!"

He looked only mildly pacified and then another wave of disquiet passed over him and, much to her dismay, the sadness returned to his face. He shifted onto his side and reached out to take her hand, but his eyes fell from hers.

"I did you a great wrong, Elsie," he said softly.

She could only stare at him in trepidation.

"I ought to have told you about this ... condition. The tremors. I knew it was in my family. I was just ... stupidly, _selfishly_ ... hoping it would pass me by. It struck my father a decade earlier. It gave me hope. But," and now he looked directly at her again, "I ought never to have married you without making you aware of it. You should have had the opportunity to make your decision with all the facts before you."

She sighed with relief and tightened her hand in his. "It wouldn't have mattered."

"You don't know that."

"But I do. Charlie, you know we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, one way or the other. Maybe we'd have been on opposite sides of the wall in our attic rooms, or in cottages side by side, or, as we are now, under one roof, in one bed. But we were going to be together nonetheless. _I'd_ no intention of anything otherwise. And I don't think you did, really. Am I wrong?"

Reluctantly he shook his head. Wasn't that how he'd long pictured it? Well before he'd imagined the possibility of marriage, hadn't he envisaged himself as the crotchety aged butler of Downton Abbey, having his tea poured and his pillows fluffed by the aging but still - _always_ \- beautiful housekeeper?

"I don't know why you put up with me," he said, grumbling a bit, because that was who he was.

She put her arms around his head and gathered him against her. "I'll tell you why, Charlie. It's because, hard as it may be for you to believe, I love you more than do _all_ of the Crawleys combined."

He said something but she didn't hear it because his words were muffled against her. She drew back a little. "What was that?"

He didn't raise his head, his words coming more clearly only because she'd given him a little breathing space. "Even Lady Mary?" he asked mischievously.

"Oh, Charlie!" She lightly slapped his ear and then drew his head up that she might kiss him. Their lips met only lightly at first and then she deepened the kiss until he, at a slight physical advantage from his position, had to cling to her as his only source of stability.

When finally she let him go, muttering under her breath, "Lady Mary, indeed!" it was a long moment before he could even recall who Lady Mary was. *******

 *** NOTE:** I really wanted Carson to have wanted to say "sod off," but according to dictionary definitions of British slang, that term did not come into usage until the 1960s. "Bugger off" is a poor second, but it at least has some historical credibility, making an appearance (according to the sources I found, anyway) in 1920. This makes Carson's reference to a knowledge of vulgar language from his days in the theatre an anachronism, at least where this term is concerned. But I wanted to use it to convey his repressed anger with the Dowager, so there it is.

 ****NOTE:** Elsie is quoting Rudyard Kipling's wonderful poem, _If_. As Mr. Carson has a canon-authenticated affection for the works of Rudyard Kipling, I thought it appropriate.

 *****NOTE:** I love Carson and Mary _even_ above Carson and Mrs. Hughes, so this was a difficult line to write. And I'm not sure I find it that believable.


	4. Chapter 4: Progress

**Chapter 4 - Progress**

At atmosphere of unease pervaded the cottage on Monday morning. Disturbed as he was by the conversation of the previous afternoon, Carson had managed to sleep well. That had been Elsie's doing. She had calmed him and comforted him, and brought some measure of perspective to his transgression. He went to sleep awash in heartfelt gratitude for her presence in his life and awoke with the same feeling of humble appreciation. He did not deserve her.

But then she had left for her early morning rounds and, now on his own, his mind drifted back to his confrontation with the Dowager and, its complement, the regular Monday morning walking appointment he had with His Lordship. Would His Lordship even come? Elsie had scoffed at Lord Grantham doing anything else and was dismissive of any repercussions arising from the previous day's incident. He was blowing things out of proportion, she'd said. He wondered.

He did not like to be at odds with those about whom he cared greatly. It was important to him that things ran smoothly. He accepted that they did not always do so, but if it were within his power to keep the fabric of life unruffled, then he was prepared to make every effort in that pursuit. Elsie was of a more confrontational disposition and though she did not court dissension, nor did she shy away from it for its own sake. He was learning to pick his battles with her, learning to be more accepting of doing things differently. They did not always agree, but they did not often disagree. And that was something about their marriage that he cherished.

He felt almost the same about his relationship with Robert Crawley. They had crossed swords over the years, but almost invariably over aspects of running the house and more often than not, Carson's views had prevailed. This was in large part because His Lordship understood that the management of the house was the butler's responsibility and that challenges to that authority should not be made lightly. When on the rare occasion that His Lordship had insisted on having his own way - in retaining Mr. Bates, for instance - Carson had given way with grace, the exception proving the overall rule of the butler's supremacy. But the matter with the Dowager was a personal one and here they had - both of them - scrupulously avoided conflict over the years, and so Carson could not be certain of His Lordship's reaction. There had occasionally been minor irritations - Mrs. Patmore had been the flashpoint for two of these incidents in recent years, with Carson and His Lordship disagreeing over both her nephew and her bed and breakfast - but His Lordship had prevailed and these had quickly passed. Long ago there had been a moment of discord about Lady Mary, although neither of them had ever brought it into the open and in that instance it was His Lordship who had yielded. This situation was entirely different, of course, for he _was_ in the wrong here and it was only for him to make this clear to His Lordship as promptly as possible. And were it not for the fact that their regular engagement precluded an immediate interview with the Dowager, he would have hastened to make it right with her. But that was not possible and he would have to face His Lordship first.

Carson was not alone in his disquiet on Monday morning. At the Abbey, Robert was contemplating the conversation about Carson he'd recently had with his mother. He'd dismissed her remarks in the moment, convinced both of the wrongness of her views and the superiority of his own. But her words had pricked his conscience and he had not been able satisfactorily to dispel them. He flinched now at the hollowness of his own claim to lack of jurisdiction. And he had grudgingly to admit that perhaps he had not made his own position clear with regard to Carson's future role at Downton. Although he was capable of standing his ground, Robert's disposition was fundamentally non-confrontational, perhaps an instinctual response to his mother's combative nature. Robert did not like to be at odds with _anyone_ and though he thought himself on good terms with Carson, perhaps there were things there that ought to be addressed.

His ruminations did not, however, impinge on his expectation of an enjoyable walk with Carson. In fact, he looked forward to it as an opportunity to put his own apprehensions to rest.

He was about to get up from the breakfast table, the last one to rise again, the others all operating at a rather more immoderate pace these days, when Barrow presented him with a note. He observed in passing Barrow's adherence to the ritual - the note had arrived _by hand_ and Andrew had brought it up from the servants' hall. Barrow had then taken charge of it, delivering it on a silver tray with the letter opener that had served this purpose as long as Robert could remember. Many of the forms of things were the same, he thought absently, but they did not always _feel_ the same. He shook that melancholic air off long enough to read the note. There was not much to it though the issue was substantial enough, but there was no one around with whom to discuss it. Another aggravation. But then he remembered there was someone who would be interested.

"Thank you, Barrow," he said, getting to his feet. "I shall be out walking this morning. I'll be back after lunch."

"Very good, my lord."

It was a perfunctory exchange. Barrow knew what His Lordship did on Monday mornings. Mr. Carson might be retired, but he was still a significant person in His Lordship's life. Theirs had been, would always be, much more than the working relationship to which Barrow aspired. It sometimes seemed to Barrow that many of the things he had associated with the position of butler were actually aspects of Mr. Carson and so had left with him. He, Barrow, might be the butler of Downton Abbey now, but the role was not entirely as he had envisaged it. Reconciling himself to that reality was one of the challenges he faced.

Carson had never declined to undertake an unpleasant task nor to avoid a difficult conversation if they were necessary. His Lordship's appearance at the door, his countenance as congenial as ever, his manner as always one of informal politeness, encouraged Carson to take the initiative. He did want this dark cloud to lurk over his head all morning.

"Could you step inside for a moment, my lord? There is something I wanted to speak with you about."

Robert was amenable to this, as eager to dispense with his concerns as Carson was. Unburdened, they might then both be able to enjoy their walk.

Carson let the rambunctious dogs out into the back garden and then returned to the sitting room where Robert stood by the front window, his hands folded behind his back.

Well, there was no point putting it off. "I had a conversation with Her Ladyship, the Dowager, yesterday afternoon," Carson began.

"She mentioned it last night," Robert said lightly, and then added, somewhat contritely, "I knew she was going to speak to you, Carson. I'm sorry about not giving you a heads-up on it."

"No warning would have done justice to the event," Carson murmured.

Robert gave a short laugh. "I know what you mean."

Carson cleared his throat, preparatory to the difficult confession. "I...I spoke out of turn with her. Quite seriously so. To put it bluntly, my lord, I was terribly rude."

The look on Robert's face was one of mild surprise. "She didn't say."

This astonished Carson. The Dowager regularly spent Sunday dinner with her family and he could not imagine her failing to mention his uncharacteristic and unforgivable transgression. But His Lordship would not dissemble on something like this. "I hope you're not offended, my lord," he said cautiously.

Far from being defensive on his mother's behalf, Robert felt only a sense of relief that this should be the substance of Carson's apparent discomfort. "She must have been in fighting form indeed to have drawn _you_ to the attack." Then he shrugged. "My mother can fight her own battles," he said drily. "I hope _you_ weren't offended."

"I was...taken aback," Carson admitted, which was only the truth, although he found His Lordship's casualness about it a little bewildering.

"I can only say, Carson, that if she overstepped the mark, she did it out of concern for you. That's a poor excuse for bad behaviour, but it's the only one she ever offers. To any of us."

"I was the one in the wrong, my lord, wholly and completely."

"I doubt that," Robert said, almost under his breath. But Carson had given him the opportunity to introduce those thoughts that had been preoccupying him. "I can appreciate your consternation. We had harsh words between us last week - over you - and she raked me over the coals pretty thoroughly, too. I thought her a little out of line then, but...," he sighed, "she may have had a point."

They stood together in the sitting room, at angles to each other rather than straight on, but meeting each other's gaze in the forthright manner they had always shared. "I cut you adrift, Carson, thinking that by saying nothing I was freeing you to make up your own mind without reference to my views. In doing so, I may have mistakenly given you the impression that I didn't care what you did or, worse, that I was being dishonest when I encouraged you to re-define your role at Downton. Nothing could be farther from the truth."

"There are many ways you might continue to make a difference. You _do_ know an immense amount about the wines and how to manage a wine cellar. I _would_ feel better if you were on hand for big events - we'll still have them and we'll have to rely on hired labour. Barrow is still learning how to manage the staff he knows. And though he knows the work, he doesn't know how to train others to it. You can teach him that, too."

"Barrow may not want to learn from me, my lord."

Robert shook his head dismissively. "He knew the terms of his appointment. And, of course, you must talk to him about it all. This is something that can only be worked out between you. But if you want to play a role - and I leave it up to you to decide the nature of that role or if you want one at all - I will back you in any conversation with Barrow." Though he spoke quietly there was a steely determination in His Lordship's voice. Carson could not doubt of his sincerity.

"You are kind, my lord."

This acknowledgment of his generosity embarrassed Robert a little. "Nonsense, Carson," he said quietly, looking away. "It's who were are. Let's set something up for Friday morning. That will give you a little time to think about what you'd like to do and I'll let Barrow know so that he will be forewarned. And let's try to make it work."

"I look forward to it."

"Good. Now, let's get the dogs and go for our walk."

They were both strong walkers and it was nothing for them to walk ten miles of a morning, like this one, when the sun was shining and the air brisk. But it was often their habit, when they came across one of the benches scattered about the estate at scenic spots, to sit and enjoy the view. The dogs, familiar with this behaviour, threw themselves into a wrestling match in which Tiaa, still in the long-limbed awkward phase of a young dog, was at a disadvantage to Shep's adult weight and experience.

"I can't remember the last time I saw any of the family taking a moment like this," Robert mused. He loved every square foot of Downton, but some vistas were more impressive than others and this was one of them. They were situated on a bit of a rise that opened up to them the undulating folds of the land, green fields dotted with sheep alternating with bands of woodland, and in the distance, Downton Abbey itself, its profile a sharp contrast against the cloudless blue sky.

"They don't walk the estate like I did," he went on. "Lady Mary and Mr. Branson, I mean. Or ride it, like my father did."

"His Lordship spent every morning in the saddle," Carson recalled.

"Yes, and he knew the place like the back of his hand," Robert said. "Lady Mary and Mr. Branson go everywhere in a car. I know that's his enthusiasm and that Lady Mary has many demands on her attention - the estate, George, Mr. Talbot - but I can't help feeling they're missing out on a lot of things. An estate isn't something to be managed at speed."

"The world has picked up its pace," Carson noted sadly.

"Yes," Robert said, a little querulously, "but some things can't be seen from a car window, if you're even looking out of it and not doing something else." Robert was disdainful of the modern propensity to attempt more than one thing at a time, ensuring that one did neither well. "I'm not really complaining about their management, you understand. I suppose it's their _methods_ I find wanting. Driving gives you no sense at all of the vastness of the land. How can you know whether there's been too much rain or too little unless you're aware of the water levels in the brooks coursing through the woods? How can you appreciate the consistency of the crop over time if you don't follow it year in and year out? I don't know, Carson. Perhaps I've just become a grumpy old man." He smiled at that, but it was not entirely a reflection of amusement.

"I agree with you, my lord," Carson said supportively. "But then, I have been told I _am_ a grumpy old man."

Robert chuckled at that. "You do understand. You know every nook and cranny of the house, I'll warrant. Probably know it better even than I do, though I spent my childhood exploring it."

They settled into a comfortable silence, enjoying the peace and beauty of their surroundings. They each relished their easiness with the other in such moments.

"There was something else I wanted to raise with you," Robert said, after a while. He drew from his pocket the envelope that Barrow had given him earlier and passed it along to Carson. "A note from one of the villagers. It came this morning.

"About Pipp's Corner?" Carson asked, even as he extracted the missive from its sheath. He unfolded the paper and ran his eyes over it. "Ah. Mr. Cluett."

Robert was watching him carefully. "You're not surprised," he observed. "How did you know?"

"I've been down there recently, my lord. Yesterday afternoon in fact. I went for a long walk after my conversation with the Dowager," he added soberly.

"Hmm. Well, the man appears greatly disturbed. Is there anything to it?"

Carson proceeded cautiously. He had not been in the best frame of mind to appreciate what he'd heard from the villagers the day before and he did not wish to prejudice their interests by misrepresenting them. "There are some ... concerns, my lord. I believe Mr. Cluett has emerged as local spokesman for those matters."

Robert took the note back and stared at it. "Cluett's not a troublemaker, never has been. But there's clearly some difference of opinion in the village about the development at Pipp's Corner." He glanced up at Carson. "Well, there were bound to be some detractors, weren't there. But I am wondering about it. Lady Mary has said nothing except that it's all in order. But clearly it isn't."

He was agitated. The village had always been a particular focus for his attentions.

Carson appreciated this. "And what are your thoughts on this, my lord?"

"Well. That I can't just ignore the man. He appealed to me directly."

"Ought you to have a word?"

"I'm not sure it's my place any more."

The silence between them dragged on for a long minute.

"You _are_ the Earl of Grantham," Carson said softly.

Their eyes met.

"Are you fomenting rebellion against Lady Mary, Carson?" Robert asked bluntly, not entirely joking.

Carson drew himself up almost as if insulted, but they both knew it was false indignation. "No such thing, my lord," he said firmly. "But...you are skilled in managing relations in the village. It has always been one of your strengths."

"As opposed to Lady Mary, you mean." Robert knew it was a futile gambit. Trying to catch Carson undermining Lady Mary was like trying to apprehend a skilled poker shark cheating. Terrence Samuels passed fleetingly through his mind.

"I wouldn't say that," Carson said mildly, not at all to Robert's surprise. "But you have always had a knack for reconciling frictions. You wouldn't want a serious rift to develop there."

"No," Robert agreed. "I wouldn't. Do you know what it's all about, Carson? They can't seriously want to stop the development completely. That's not on. The decision has been made." It was, in fact, one of the last major decisions that he had made about the estate and he wouldn't hear of its abandonment. It was a good plan and a wise move for Downton's future. He was sure of it.

"I think it's more a matter of _means_ , rather than _ends_ , my lord. There is some controversy over the road. There may be some recalcitrants who oppose the whole thing, but the majority might be swayed if they thought they were being listened to." He said this somewhat delicately, concerned as much for the discretion of the villagers as out of a desire to avoid any direct criticism of Lady Mary.

"Perhaps if I were to walk that way some time this week?"

"How could it hurt to look in," Carson said agreeably.

"Hmm."

They exchanged a knowing look. They had worked together for too long not to discern each other's thoughts without the necessity of words. Robert found this conversation surprisingly gratifying. He had never had cause to doubt Carson's allegiance, even where Lady Mary's involvement might have created a conflict of interest, but it was reassuring to be reminded that the man's first loyalty lay where it always had, with the Earl of Grantham.

They walked on. Robert's thought shifted in another direction.

"I know it hasn't been that long since Barrow took up the appointment as butler, but things have changed quite dramatically at Downton in the past few months, Carson, and I'm not sure you're aware of the extent of it all."

"The exodus of the household staff was already in process before Christmas," Carson noted. "What with maids coming up from the village and Molesley handing in his notice."

Robert nodded. "Molesley," he echoed. "Good luck to the chap, I say. But it's more than that. It really struck me when I had cause to go up to the attics one day. There's almost no one left up there, in the servants' quarters. I haven't been up there in years. Of course Anna and Bates have been long gone and you and Mrs. Hughes, as well. And now Daisy coming in daily from the farm. There's only Mrs. Patmore and Baxter on the one side, and Barrow and Andrew on the other. When - if - Baxter and Anna ever resign, we probably won't replace them. It's just not the same."

No, the house would never again see the full complement of staff that Carson had known when he joined the house a half century earlier. He knew His Lordship was trying to be kind about his reluctant retirement, but in the moment his mind wandered to potentially imminent changes of which His Lordship could not be aware. These involved Andrew's developing interest in both farming, under Mr. Mason's guiding hand, and Daisy. How long would the young man be prepared to divide his energies? There was also, and Carson found this a little more alarming, the emerging possibility of an association - he really didn't want to use the word _romance_ \- between Albert Mason and Mrs. Patmore. ***** The formidable cook might soon find a life that combined the running of her still-infamous (in Mr. Carson's mind) bed-and-breakfast with the somewhat more relaxed pace of life as a retired farmer's wife was more attractive than the always-hectic pace of kitchen commandant at Downton Abbey.

"We'll always have a cook and a butler to live in," Robert was saying, "but other positions will eventually all be held by staff who live in the village." He sighed. "You wouldn't have liked it Carson. In fact, I'm not sure Barrow will like it. He got the job he always wanted just as it becomes an anachronism. Perhaps _he'll_ leave."

"He won't leave."

The certainty in Carson's voice drew Robert's attention. He frowned curiously. "Even if the job isn't what he wanted?"

"Downton is his home, my lord. It may not mean quite as much to him, or in the same way, as to you and me who were born here. But he's comfortable. He can be who he is here, more or less. Or at least he doesn't have to explain."

"That's a turnabout for you, isn't it?"

Carson sighed. "I've never liked him much, I'll admit it. But it isn't Barrow's fault that I had to relinquish my position. Indeed, I must be grateful to him. His assumption of the post has made it possible for me to remain in the home _I_ have always loved."

Robert considered this for a few moments. "He's still a little young to be a butler."

"He is thirty-six, my lord. _I_ was thirty-two."

"How did that happen, anyway?" Robert asked. He must have been aware of the details at some point, he realized, but Carson's advancement had occurred as he was negotiating the early stages of a complicated marriage and this had distracted him. "It seems rather radical for my father."

"Mr. Finch died unexpectedly. I'd ... we'd anticipated him living for a good many years longer than he did. He _was_ training me up for it and His Lordship, your father, thought we might as well get on with it, even though I'd hardly a dozen years in service."

"Even more radical than I thought," Robert declared. "How was that, anyway?"

On this Carson balked. "I...would...rather not go into that, my lord. If you don't mind." He couldn't believe he had almost opened the door to that part of his past that he tried so hard to bury. His Lordship's father had known more of the story and Carson had had to confess a few strands of it to His Lordship years ago when Charles Grigg had briefly crawled out of the gutter to remind him of it. But he recoiled against drawing any more of it into the daylight.

Robert's intent stare was slightly unnerving, but then he relented. "Some other time, perhaps," he said with an enigmatic smile.

They had reached the top of the lane that led to the cottages. The dogs, anticipating the next step, had already started down their separate paths.

Robert took a deep breath, preparatory to issuing another statement of great import. "I don't want to undermine what I said earlier, Carson, but you might also consider looking at this change in your life in a different light."

"I'm not sure I follow you, my lord."

"Only that there's no reason why you shouldn't take some enjoyment from leisure. You're married now. You have a life outside of Downton to build. Take the time to do it. You've worked hard all your life, Carson, as I can well attest. Marriage is a career all its own, I can tell you, and one fully as demanding as managing an estate or practicing a profession."

He caught the sceptical look in Carson's eye. "And don't say you're beyond it. Old dogs, new tricks, that old chestnut. It's a fallacy, anyway. Dogs can learn at any age. It's the masters who are always wanting. I'm only saying that you could consider your change in circumstances as an opportunity, rather than a sentence."

Carson cast a shrewd glance at the other man. "And you, my lord? What about you?"

Robert allowed himself a rueful grin and nodded in acknowledgment of Carson's deft rejoinder. "You think perhaps I ought to take my own advice."

A cultivated habit of understatement kept Carson from saying more. He only maintained steady eye contact.

And that, Robert told himself, was what came of dispensing gratuitous wisdom. It could always be turned back on its author. "Until Friday morning, then," Robert said.

"My lord," Carson said with a nod, by way of a goodbye.

Robert turned away and then stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder. "Carson." He hesitated for a second more. "Don't rush to apologize to my mother. Go to her only when you know where you stand and can be firm about it. Otherwise she'll tear you to pieces." He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. "Again."

 *** NOTE:** In the fanfiction world Mr. Mason has been known _almost_ exclusively (but not entirely) as Bill, but his name is apparently Albert. This is according to the portrait of him in Jessica Fellowes, _Downton Abbey: A Celebration_ , 204.


	5. Chapter 5: The Butler of Downton Abbey

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **Chapter 5 The Butler of Downton Abbey**

 **Friday Morning**

"You'll be hours early for your appointment," Elsie said to him, as they headed for the Abbey on Friday morning, Shep keeping a dignified pace beside them.

"I want to walk you to work," he said, smiling at her. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not. I just don't know what you'll do until nine o'clock."

"Oh, we won't come in and get under your feet, don't worry. Shep and I will go for a walk."

"Mind you don't rumple your suit," she directed him. "You've had to clean it once already this week." He'd done a good job of it though, she had to admit.

"I'll stick to the gravel paths," he assured her, and then reached out to tuck her arm into his.

She cast a sidelong glance at him, slightly amused. "That's very forward of you, Mr. Carson. Aren't you worried someone might see you?"

He recognized the mischief in her voice. "We're married," he said. "And my life is my own now, Mrs. Carson," he added, making her smile by using that name. "You're the one with the professional reputation to protect." He put his hand over hers on his arm and squeezed it a little. "You've not really told me what you think about all this, Elsie."

"Haven't I?"

"It's your last chance," he went on. "Before I make any commitments this morning with Mr. Barrow."

She thought for a minute. "I agree with His Lordship that you ought not apologize to the Dowager," she said finally.

He raised an eyebrow at her, feigning exasperation. He already knew what she thought about that. " _Yet_ ," he added.

She said nothing.

"I mean, about what kind of a role I should assume at the Abbey," he said, ignoring her pointed silence and drawing her back to the topic.

"We _have_ talked about it. For months. We talked about it on Sunday night. And again on Monday. And every day since."

"But you didn't come down on one side or the other."

"No," she said firmly, looking up at him. "Because it's a decision you have to make for yourself. It has to be what _you_ want and what you can live with. That's really what we all want, Charlie. Me. His Lordship. Even the Dowager." She tightened her arm around his. "I have confidence in you," she added. "You make good decisions."

He drew his arm from hers and slipped it around her, pulling her close for a moment, pressing his cheek to hers, taking pleasure in the warmth of her. "Eventually," he murmured.

She laughed and gave him a gentle kiss before moving away. "You'll make me late."

 **The Butler of Downton Abbey**

His Lordship had suggested that the three of them meet in the small library, but the awkwardness of this assembly became immediately apparent. Neither Mr. Carson nor Mr. Barrow would sit in his presence and he was hardly going to sit while they remained standing. Realizing this, Robert made a quick decision.

"Well, you know why you're here," he said briskly. He'd spoken to them separately and established the terms, making it clear to Barrow that he placed his full support behind Carson and expected the butler to be cooperative. "I'll leave you to it." He nodded to them both and then left.

Barrow and Carson looked around uncomfortably and then met the other's gaze.

"I don't think I can do this here..."

"Why don't we go downstairs to the ..."

They both stopped talking.

"You were saying?" Carson said.

"Perhaps we could find more appropriate quarters for this conversation," Barrow said. He was thinking hard, trying to come up with someplace neutral.

"The butler's pantry?" Mr. Carson suggested calmly.

Barrow decided not to question it. He nodded and they headed immediately to the green baize door that led to the servants' stairs. Out of a habit of deference, Barrow held the door open for the other man and followed him downstairs. It could hardly have been otherwise, and yet Carson felt he could no longer take such a courtesy for granted.

The pantry was much as Carson had left it. The few times he had been down this corridor in the past few months, he had tried not to look in. He hadn't wanted to face the changes.

But what caught his eye when he came in the door were not the personal adjustments Barrow had made, if any, as none of them immediately leaped to his attention, but rather the fine crystal goblet that was sitting in the middle of Barrow's desk. A look of shock descended on Carson's face as he advanced toward it and then turned in astonished indignation toward the butler.

"What is _this_ doing out _here_?" he demanded, his voice reflecting all the towering outrage of the authority he had exercised for decades from this office.

Barrow slipped by him and went to stand beside the desk. "I've been doing an inventory of the various pieces for special occasions and I neglected to put this away before I went upstairs for our..."

" _Neglected_. I'll say!" Mr. Carson could hardly have been more affronted had a member of staff failed to bow before the King. "Do you have _any_ idea what you're dealing with here, Mr. Barrow?!"

For a moment, it seemed as though Barrow might retort with the same level of righteous condescension that Carson was employing against him. But the moment passed and instead a look of humility came over him. "No, Mr. Carson. I don't."

The response stopped Carson in his tracks and he swallowed the additional rebuke that was already on his lips.

Barrow gestured toward the desk, not really pointing to either the chair behind or before it. He wanted to take the butler's chair himself - he _was_ the butler - but this was Mr. Carson, after all.

But Carson settled the question by taking the visitor's chair.

"You are the butler at Downton Abbey, Mr. Barrow," he said, giving Barrow leave to take his old chair. He was not so much pained by his own words as resigned. This was something he must accept and he'd better get on about it.

That was a bit of a relief. Barrow sat behind the desk and returned to the subject.

"I've seen this goblet out but only very rarely, and I was trying to find out exactly what it was so that I'd know when to use it," he explained.

"It is one of a pair," Carson said, his own acknowledgment of Barrow's position cooling his ire. "They were given to His Lordship and Her Ladyship on the occasion of their wedding by the Duke of Edinburgh and his wife, as a mark of their regard for His Lordship's father the Fifth Earl, who was a member of the household of Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh. They use them _only_ on the quinquennial anniversaries of their marriage."

Barrow stared at him in incomprehension.

"That is every five years," Carson said, suppressing an impulse to impatience. "They used them last on their thirtieth anniversary," he added.

"Ah. Yes, that's where I remember them from."

"Why on earth did you have them out?"

"I want to know things, Mr. Carson," Barrow replied earnestly, and with just a faint trace of testiness. "I want to know _everything._ As you do. I want..." He tried to think how to phrase this. "Do you remember the hospital fund-raising event last year when the house was opened to the public?"

Carson stared at Barrow as though he had gone mad. How on earth could he have forgotten _that_? "I am only physically infirm, Mr. Barrow," he said stiffly. "I haven't gone senile yet."

"Yes, well, the staff were, as you may recall, stationed throughout the house. I was in the dining room." Barrow paused. He knew Mr. Carson's sense of pride extended beyond the physical realm of the house to the family, perhaps even _more_ to the family, and so to say something that might not reflect favourably on them was a risky business. But it was also the truth and something he needed to address.

"As the family members escorted groups through the house I had the...impression...that they didn't really know much about the history of the place or the...artifacts - paintings, objects, furniture, and such - that take pride of place in every room." A deep and disapproving frown was taking shape on Mr. Carson's face, but Barrow was determined. This was something that was important to him. And the ignorance of the family had been astonishing, and not a little embarrassing. "When someone asked about the van Dyck portrait of King Charles I, Lady Edith said something like 'A dashing man who knew how to sit a horse well.' She didn't know who he was, Mr. Carson. She wasn't even able to comment on the artist." Barrow was being slightly disingenuous here. It was Lady Mary who had said this, but he knew well enough not to overload the guns.

Carson struggled with this. He found Barrow's comments impertinent, although he knew them to be accurate. He also suspected Barrow was not being completely truthful with him, for he had heard Lady Mary say the same thing about the portrait, although it was many years ago. He decided to ignore the family context and focus on the specific issue Barrow was raising.

"Your point, Mr. Barrow?"

"The details are important, Mr. Carson," Barrow said emphatically, trying to persuade the other man to his point of view. "You know that more than anyone else in this house. I've seen the way you go over the dining room table for an ordinary dinner, let alone a major entertainment. And for the butler it's important to know not only how to handle and preserve these...these functional works of art like the crystal goblets or different pieces of silver... but also to know their origin. Their stories. I want to know their stories, Mr. Carson. These goblets caught my eye this week and I was hoping I'd be able to look them up, perhaps in the library, and find out about them."

"You won't find that story in the library."

"No. So perhaps we've found the first point for cooperation, Mr. Carson."

A silence grew between them as Carson pondered this. He was surprised that Barrow should take this approach to the material aspects of the house. They had always been important to him, but he

did not know that every butler was as conscientious about the details of the house as he was. "Well," he said finally. "You ought to put this one away now. And it would be better to court the wrath of the family by being late, Mr. Barrow, than to risk harm coming to this or any other of the precious pieces that are stored here."

Barrow picked up the goblet, acutely aware that Mr. Carson was scrutinizing his handling of it. With it safely in its place and the cabinet securely locked, he resumed his chair once more and the two men stared at each other across the desk. They had not gotten very far. Neither one of them really knew how to proceed.

"How are you coping with the reduced staff?" Carson had no small talk to make with Barrow. He could only fall back on general professional concerns and this was one that interested him. Dealing with this had proven a challenge in his last weeks at Downton and he was curious how it all looked to Barrow.

The butler shrugged. "I end up doing a lot of the footmen's work."

Carson nodded. "It was that way during the war, although at least then we had hopes of the situation someday returning to normal. Now, I fear, it is a permanent thing."

This elicited an agreeable nod from Barrow, whose war service had been one of the reasons Downton was shortstaffed. He hadn't paid much attention to staffing woes then, or had much sympathy for Mr. Carson's difficulties either, but now he saw it as common ground. "As well, Andrew is down at Mr. Mason's farm as much as possible." _Andrew_. The name had slipped off his tongue so easily. Was it because he was speaking to Mr. Carson? Or was he falling into formal habits as a matter of course?

"Why is that?"

The question puzzled Barrow for a minute. "Andrew fancies himself a farmer," he said. "It's his preference, really, though he's not up to it full-time just yet."

Carson was already aware of this. "A boy from Bayswater mucking about with the pigs!" He could not fathom it. He had grown up about the stables and had been glad enough to get away from them. But there was a more important issue here. "I meant, why do you allow it? He can't be a footman part time. Put your foot down."

Barrow had been of two minds about this. He liked Andy and wanted to see him happy in his work and in a position where there was some opportunity for growth. Service no longer seemed to fit the latter criterion. But he'd also been a little irritated by the assumption on Andy's part that the footman job was just a temporary holding measure until greener pastures - literally - firmed up for him. Barrow appreciated Mr. Carson taking his part on this, however predictable his attitude.

"When he goes, I wonder if they'll even replace him," Barrow mused. "Then it'll be just me."

They looked at each other and shared a moment of glum understanding.

"A dreary prospect indeed," Carson murmured. "You'll have to resort to hired help."

For Carson this was, in fact, more than just a dreary thought, as His Lordship had implied. It was nothing short of a calamity. House staff had a deeper level of commitment to the whole enterprise than day workers ever could, no matter how efficient they might be on an individual basis. It was another sign of the crumbling of the world in which he had spent much of his life and he hated to see it go as much for nostalgia as the practical implications. He wondered how he _would_ have coped with this in the long run and was then suddenly, and surprisingly, glad that he would not have to find out.

"Mr. Molesley said that he would pitch in when needed." Barrow shook his head in incredulity. "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be glad of his assistance."

Carson nodded, understanding. He'd found himself in that position, too, and been similarly dismayed. "We're seeing a lot of days we never thought would come to pass, Mr. Barrow. Mr. Molesley's apparently doing quite well down at the school. They say he's a good teacher. How do you credit that?"

"No idea."

In a working relationship that spanned more than a decade, Carson and Barrow had found little in common but they had always shared a sense of exasperation with Mr. Molesley. Neither of them were jealous of the turnabout in his fortunes, but they were both astonished by it.

"I wonder how long Miss Baxter will be staying on," Barrow said.

"What? Where's _she_ going?" Carson demanded. As far as he knew, Miss Baxter had secured the position at Downton by the skin of her teeth and was lucky to be employed anywhere.

Barrow was smug. "Only following the example set by you and Mrs. Carson. She might just be moving into a cottage."

There was a moment while Carson interpreted this and then he snorted in disbelief. "Things really are coming up roses for our Mr. Molesley, aren't they!"

Barrow's smugness faded a little. He was torn when it came to the matter of the lady's maid and the teacher, formerly the bumbling footman. He'd had no patience with Molesley right from the beginning, even before the man had fallen from butler and valet to footman. And he was even a little envious that Molesley, of all people, should find domestic bliss within his reach. But Miss Baxter had proven a friend and he could no longer be quite as dismissive of a couple that included her. He turned in a different direction.

"I finally reach the top of my profession and there's no one left under me."

Another of those quiet moments descended upon them. Barrow was only noting what His Lordship had remarked upon earlier in the week. Now, as then, Carson was certain that this was an observation, rather than a complaint. Contemplating the younger man and his words, Carson realized that his own perspective had shifted over the course of this conversation, unexpectedly and in a direction he could not have anticipated. He thought he might finally have found his opening.

"The Dowager, and His Lordship, too, seem particularly concerned about the management of the wine cellar, Mr. Barrow," he said abruptly. "What are your views on that aspect of your duties?"

This sudden injection of the practical did not throw the butler. "It's an area of weakness for me, Mr. Carson. There is much that I can, and have, learned about being a butler by observation and direction, but it seems to me that I don't have the experience there - yet - to operate at the level the family may expect." It was possibly one of the frankest admissions of his life.

"Do you think I might be of some service to you there?" Carson spoke with deliberation. He did not want to impose on Barrow.

Something that might have been relief flickered briefly across the butler's face. "How did _you_ become so proficient, Mr. Carson? I have a passing acquaintance with the types and vintages, but..." Best not to probe that acquaintance too deeply, Barrow thought. His most grievous official transgression at Downton had been stealing wines. But that was before the war, a very long time ago now.

Carson chose not to make anything of it, though his mind had immediately resurrected that episode. "His Lordship's father sent me on a training course in France. That'll never happen again, don't get your hopes up. There is nothing like on the ground experience, but ... I believe there are things I could teach you." When Barrow paused, Carson took a plunge he had not even thought possible for him.

"Look, Mr. Barrow, it'll never work, this idea of butler and senior butler. There can't be two men in livery around the place. There needs to be a firm chain of command even if," he admitted, "there isn't much of a chain. I've been clinging to this possibility like a lifeline, but it's not on. I must step away." He was a little surprised to see a look of astonishment on Barrow's face. The man was usually so adept at concealing his inner thoughts. Carson pressed ahead. "If you have any questions or if ever I might be of assistance to you, you know well where to find me. I want only for the family to have the best of service and if I can help you to provide that, then you have only to ask. In fact," he added, beginning to feel downright reckless, "I should add that I am grateful to you. Had you not taken the job, I would have been obliged to leave the estate. It would have broken my heart to do so."

Was it his imagination or was that relief that was washing over him? He had no time to examine that feeling in depth before Barrow spoke.

"Were you not to remain on the estate, Mr. Carson, I would not have this job. We have done each other a favour and they are cancelled out. Let us speak no more about it." They exchanged a nod of acknowledgment over this and it was done. "And..." He paused, not yet really prepared to accept what Carson had said. "And if you are sincere, Mr. Carson,..."

Carson took a deep breath and looked the other man squarely in the eye. "I am."

"Then...then I should be glad to avail myself of your advice." Barrow looked for a moment as if he didn't believe he would ever have said such a thing. "Would it ... Do you think we might get together, perhaps once a week, for a little while at least, just to ... talk about things. I've found your conversation today quite helpful."

That might have been a bit of flattery - Barrow knew that His Lordship clearly favoured Carson's presence in some way - but Carson sensed that something had shifted for Barrow, too. He nodded agreeably. "As you wish, Mr. Barrow. I shall be glad to do what I can."

They sat together in another moment of silence, an easy silence for once, each trying to get used to the changed dynamic.

"I know we've not been friends, Mr. Carson," Barrow said at length, " but perhaps we might be colleagues."

"We've always been colleagues, Mr. Barrow," Carson replied heavily, "but perhaps we might be _better_ colleagues." And that they had not been, he realized, was partly his doing. Abruptly he reminded himself that Barrow had stolen wine, bullied his juniors, and conspired with Miss O'Brien. No, he had never liked Barrow, but Barrow had done very little to warrant his good will. And then, unbidden, his wife's voice came to him: _That was a long time ago_. She had never said so explicitly, but he knew that was what she would say were he to recite that litany.

"Well." He stood up. "I should be going."

Barrow stood up as well. "Would you like to stay for lunch, Mr. Carson?" Barrow didn't know where that had come from. Hospitable impulses did not come naturally to him.

"No. Thank you, Mr. Barrow. It would only cause confusion in the servants' hall." Where would he sit? "I'll be away." But he paused as something else occurred to him. "Did _you_ know the identity of the subject or the artist in the van Dyck of Charles I, Mr. Barrow? At the open house, I mean?"

Barrow shook his head. "No. I looked it up afterward. It seemed to me something that...," he didn't want to criticize a family member outright, not in Mr. Carson's presence, "...that this was something I ought to know as an employee here."

"Hmm."

"And it's more than just that." At this he got an eager look in his eye, almost as if he were taking Mr. Carson into his confidence. The change in their relationship was already manifest. "That open house. I know you found it unappealing, but it's the way of the future."

 _The future_. With the Dowager Lady Grantham, Carson had no more profound dislike for a term - unless it was _change_ \- than of _the future_. "Mr. Barrow?"

"It's only what they've been dealing with ever since the war, Mr. Carson. They can't go on like this. Opening the doors to the public may become a much more common practice as a means of financing the life here. And no one should leave Downton Abbey thinking the family or its staff less than well-informed about the treasures within. I think you would agree with me, Mr. Carson, that there is a standard of performance to which we must aspire."

Damn the fellow, but he was clever. Well, that had always been so. "You make a compelling case," Carson admitted cautiously, "although I hate to think of the day when a public parade of the unwashed becomes a regular thing here." He sighed at the prospect. "You'd better get yourself a notebook, then, Mr. Barrow." When the butler looked nonplussed, Carson sighed. "To write these things down. You couldn't possibly remember it all. It's taken me decades to amass this information. Write it down when I tell it to you and then commit it to memory when you have time."

"Why don't you write it down?"

"I beg your pardon?" He was going to have to learn not to dismiss every inquiry by Barrow as impudence.

"In a book, like," Barrow said easily, and warmed to his subject. _Why hadn't anyone else ever thought of this?_ "Well, you know it all, don't you? And I learn some things better from the written page than hearing them. Stories and things like that. Other things must be hands-on, like the wines, and I know that's something that will only come with time. But if I've got a book about the house in front of me, I could be leafing through it in my spare time."

They both made a bit of a sceptical sound at the idea of a butler having spare time.

"You know what I mean. I've been trying, Mr. Carson."

"So I've heard."

"Mrs. Carson is generous."

This remark caught Carson's attention.

"You always call her Mrs. Carson. Why is that?" he asked sharply. He was so accustomed to the house practice of addressing his wife as Mrs. Hughes - a custom he had easily adhered to himself - that Barrow's divergence startled. He recalled in this moment that Barrow had used this form of her name ever since their marriage, although Carson had not given it any thought before.

"Because that's who she is, isn't she?" Barrow said, not blinking.

When Carson's raised eyebrow asked the obvious question, Barrow went on.

"It seems like the proper thing to do," he said, with a knowing look. "And I like to do things properly, Mr. Carson."

 *** AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This information is drawn from the website Period Pieces and Portraiture, or The Art of British Country House Interiors: Highclere Castle. .


	6. Chapter 6: Crystal Clear

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **Chapter 6 Crystal Clear**

 **A Delicate Balance**

Robert was beginning to get used to the fact that he was often alone at lunch. It was a reality that the family's business was now carrying them farther and farther afield. Henry, who spent his days in York, was present at the midday meal only at the weekend. _Weekend_. The word elicited a wistful sigh from Robert, remembering how his mother had once demanded to know what that was. Tom divided his time between York and the estate, but even when he was in the area he often ate at a pub rather than coming back to the house for lunch. Cora was in and out - always home on Tuesday and Thursdays, more rarely on the other days of the week. Mary, who had been raised to live a life presiding over a great house with all the social expectations that entailed, was employed as well. And though she worked out of her home, as the estate manager, she, too, could not be counted upon as a luncheon companion. Her condition, however, had made this a more frequent occurrence in recent weeks and he was glad of it, for reasons of fatherly concern as well as company. He welcomed her presence after his own quiet morning.

"How was _your_ morning?" he asked brightly, as she took a seat beside him.

"I have a bone to pick with you."

He sighed. "That sounds ominous."

"It should," she said, fixing him with a glare. "I heard in the village today that you've been holding council on the matter of Pipp's Corner."

This evoked a groan. "I understood there were some concerns there and as I happened to be in the village yesterday afternoon, I had a conversation or two. I just wanted to know what's going on." There was no point, he told himself, of drawing Mr. Cluett and his missive into it just yet.

"There's nothing going on," Mary said firmly. "There are a few grumblers. Nothing I can't resolve. But it is disconcerting to find my father is in the midst of it, stirring up trouble."

"Really, Mary. May I not pass the time of day with my own tenants? You make it sound like the Gunpowder Plot."

She shrugged. "It's our equivalent. Papa, you need not concern yourself. I have it all under control, and Tom is there to help me smooth over the rough spots." She held up a hand to stem his further protests. "I don't want you worrying about it."

There it was. Every time he attempted to resume a fraction of his responsibilities about the estate, Mary - and Cora, too, - was there reminding him of his health. It was almost a year ago that he'd had that dramatic episode with the ulcer, and still they fretted. And he had not yet managed to devise an adequate response. He looked about for a distraction.

"Barrow."

Barrow had quietly and efficiently laid the table and poured the wine, and been standing in attendance at a distance. Now he moved to Robert's side.

"My lord."

"How did it go with Carson this morning?"

Mary looked up. "What's this?"

"Carson and Barrow were meeting this morning to see how they might arrange things between them."

Mary's eyes went round with enthusiasm. "Wonderful! Carson _must_ have a role at Downton. What did he decide, Barrow?"

Her inquiry disconcerted both men. Robert was chagrined that his daughter should so blithely deny him an active part in the running of his own estate and then embrace so readily Carson's continued involvement. Didn't _his_ handicap count for anything? And, he noticed, she was taking over this conversation, too.

Barrow was slightly perturbed that Lady Mary thought it so important to accommodate Mr. Carson at his expense. He also noted the dynamic between father and daughter, which gave him a fleeting pause. Where did his loyalty lie between the co-owners of the estate? He smiled to himself, knowing how Mr. Carson would answer that question, and concurring with it. He turned to His Lordship.

"It is Mr. Carson's news, my lord. I'd best let him tell you."

Mary frowned, not satisfied with such a response.

Robert thought this a little odd, but accepted it. "Fair enough. I'll speak with him on Monday."

Barrow had found himself yielding the initiative to Mr. Carson in their meeting, in surprising ways, but he had his own card to play and thought this an appropriate moment. "There was one thing, my lord..."

 **Still Stuck With Me**

At noon, as the rest of the staff gathered for lunch in the servants' hall, Elsie left the house and made her way across the vast expanse of the west lawn to where her husband sat waiting for her on a bench under one of the great yew trees that stood there. It was all very peculiar. The day was warm enough and all, but why he hadn't come to her sitting room perplexed her, especially given his morning's activities. And she couldn't remember the last time she had strolled across the grass.

He stood as she approached. Shep, who had been sprawled at his feet, also stood and indulged in one of those deep long stretches that look like a courtly bow. He was a genteel sort of dog and it did not surprise Elsie at all that this was the kind of animal who should have appealed to her husband.

She looked Charlie over carefully. He _seemed_ in good humour.

"You got my message, then," he said, gesturing her to a seat on the bench. There was, at the other end, a basket. Their lunch, as promised in his note.

"Of course," she said. "Mr. Barrow was very obliging. You could have delivered it yourself. In fact, you could have just come in and asked. I saw you across the hall in the butler's pantry." She was watching him carefully.

"I could have done," he said agreeably. "But then you'd have asked me how it went, and I'd have had to answer you there. I wanted to talk to you _here_."

She couldn't quite read him. "You look happy enough. Did Mr. Barrow prostrate himself before you and beg you to return?" When he laughed aloud at this, she gave him an impatient poke. "Charlie! How did it go?"

He took a deep breath, reached for her hand, and met her gaze directly. "I have abdicated," he intoned.

She did not move. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," he said, relaxing a little, "that what has been crystal clear to likely everyone else for months is now apparent to me." When she continued to stare at him, uncomprehending, he tightened his hold on her hand. "There cannot be two butlers at Downton Abbey. Having gotten rid of an underbutler as an anachronism and in order to reduce costs, it is not possible then to create a new post, even one of reduced responsibilities, to accommodate a senior butler. It doesn't make sense."

"Mr. Barrow convinced you of this." Elsie was surprised. She didn't think Mr. Barrow had any sway with her husband at all.

"I know it must frustrate you. You've borne with me through my ups and downs on this. But, no, it wasn't Barrow so much as...actually...the crystal." He told her about the incident with the goblet. "I was all indignance, chastising him for his cavalier treatment of this valuable object, and... Well, it came to me, didn't it? I can't handle those things any more. And that's that."

The peace of his countenance as he said this was heartening, but... "But there's more to it than that, surely. What about what the Dowager said to you about...," she had to be a little disconcerted to drag the Dowager into this, "...other functions? skills you might bring to bear?"

"Yes, those things remain. But not as _senior butler_. Downton is a ship with too many officers and not enough men, at present. The staff is bleeding off in every direction... By the way, what do you know about Molesley and Miss Baxter?"

"Charlie!"

"Beg pardon, love," he said, a little contritely. He'd almost forgotten about that tidbit of gossip and didn't want it to slip away entirely. "It was only that I could see this morning, as we talked things over, that Barrow's greatest problem isn't his inexperience or lack of skills - although he certainly has room to grow - but his lack of manpower. He's already doing the work of a footman, in addition to his own. And he'll have live-out staff to train. He doesn't need me hanging about."

"And that's...it?"

"No. Not at all." He leaned toward her, drawing her into his confidence on this. "He has aspirations, Elsie. And a vision. Of sorts. I can't say I agree with it completely." He was thinking of Barrow's alarming enthusiasm for house tours. "But I've told him I'll help him in any way I can. I'll tutor him in the management of the wines. I'll answer his questions and offer advice. At his discretion and where he - or perhaps His Lordship - thinks necessary. I shall act as a consultant, but not as a supervisor or overseer."

Elsie was astonished that he should find this satisfactory, but she turned her attention elsewhere. "And Mr. Barrow went along with this?"

"He did. He even suggested regular meetings, for a while, in order to do so. I was surprised."

"Goodness!"

"And not surprised," he admitted. "He _is_ ambitious. I've always known it, but I didn't credit it. I thought he had a narrow ambition, focused on his own self-interest. I've given my life to the family and to the house, and I've never quite believed that anyone else could. Or would. And it's not the same with Barrow, not by a long shot. But I think he does care, in his own way. And I think...," he paused, and stared steadily at her, letting her see that his conviction in this ran more deeply than mere words, "...I can accept that."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"Are you the Charlie Carson I woke up with this morning?" There was laughter in her voice, but just a hint of scepticism.

He sighed. "I have been a bear," he said ruefully, hanging his head a little. "I'm sorry for that, Elsie."

"It's your life, Charlie. You're allowed to have feelings about it."

"Perhaps. But I can't sulk forever."

"So, what will you do?"

He leaned back against the bench and favoured her with a lazy, affectionate gaze. "I'm going to have lunch with my wife," he said. "More often. But not in the servants' hall, not for a while anyway. Barrow invited me today, but...I couldn't quite face up to being displaced there. Not with Anna and Mr. Bates and...well, Barrow in _my_ chair." He grinned at her. "Not yet."

"Mr. Barrow invited you? Have I stepped through the looking glass?" It wasn't only her husband who had undergone a personality transformation this morning.

"He astonished me, too. But then, I'd just handed him the keys to the kingdom _and_ my approval to use them."

This was more dramatic news than Elsie had expected to hear and she leaned back, too, just contemplating their conversation for a moment. She saw him watching her attentively, his affections so clearly etched in his always expressive face. And a worrying little thought occurred to her. "Were you thinking that perhaps we might both retire?"

His eyes narrowed a bit and he gave her a knowing look. "In all of this, we've never discussed your future, your working future, at any rate. And I won't ask it of you, Elsie. My decision was forced on me by circumstances. You've no such imperative before you. You let me make up my mind. I'll let you make up yours."

She smiled then. "You're being awfully liberal-minded," she said airily.

He frowned. "There's no need to be insulting!"

Elsie ignored him. "What will you do then?" She did wonder.

"I shall have to put my mind to that, now, won't I? I will continue to walk with His Lordship every week. And there is Mr. Barrow, although I do expect that will fall off as time goes by. _He_ slyly suggested that I write down everything I know about the Abbey, possibly so he won't have to talk to me so much..." He was prepared to admit that he'd reached a working truce with Barrow, but they still, both of them, carried a lot of baggage in their relationship. "But I'll have to get down to it." The confidence with which he spoke pleased them both.

"I'm a little taken aback to see you so...lively."

"I've done it before, you know." Abruptly he stood up and turned to look at the Abbey. "It was a long time ago, mind. When I left Downton to...," he cleared his throat as if he needed to draw courage to continue, "...to go on the halls, I had no idea, really, what I was about. I had to find my way there, with and in spite of that charlatan I fell in with."

Elsie thought this a rather harsh reading of present sentiments back into the past with regard to the infamous Charlie Grigg. Her Charlie could rarely be cajoled into even a few words of reminiscence about that time in his youth, but she'd seen enough of Grigg to know that there was an element of talent there.

"That we had any success at all was more by accident than design..."

Again, she felt he was exaggerating from his current disdain. She'd heard him sing. And he danced like a dream.

"And then when that fell flat, I started again. Here." He stared at the house for a long moment, and could not deny the wistfulness he felt remembering all that he had done there. However reconciled he was or would be to his future, Downton would always have a claim on his heart. "It's not by choice, of course," he admitted. And then he came to sit beside her again and reached once more for her hand. He liked the feel of her warm, firm hand in his. "Still, I'm ahead of the game this time," he went on. And he raised his eyes to hers. "I've got you."

His words were so simple and heartfelt. They drew her back to the most emotionally affecting moment of her life. "Yes, you are stuck with me."

He grimaced a little, entirely for effect. "I think it's more that you're stuck with me, Mrs. Carson."

"Mrs. Carson, am I? Twice in one day! What's brought that on?"

"It's only a convention of the house," he said. "And if I'm not working there, then I see no reason why I should be bound by it. And besides," he added, conscious of Barrow's words earlier, "that's who you are."

Oh, but she was pleased by that! They did just about everything for the convenience of the Crawleys, and while most of it didn't really matter in the long run, sometimes the little things aggravated her.

"They still want me to work my full complement of hours, even if my husband is at leisure. And I'm starving. Can we eat?"

He laughed. It was so like her to turn a conversation, almost any conversation, to practical things. "Of course." He drew the basket onto his lap and opened it up. "And you can tell me what you know about Molesley and Miss Baxter."

"Well,..."

 **An Unlikely Inspiration**

Downton wasn't a large village, yet there were some people in it whose path he rarely crossed. He hadn't seen the Dowager for months. She had had to summon him to the Dower House by special invitation. He was rather hoping his luck would hold in that regard until he was ready to speak with her, a nod to His Lordship's advice.

He hadn't seen Molesley - or Mr. Molesley, as his position as schoolteacher, now endowed him - either, not since the man had left the Abbey to take up a permanent position at the school, just after Christmas. Neither had he given much thought to the former footman. Joseph Molesley had never taken up much space in Mr. Carson's mind. But the observation about him made by both Elsie and Barrow had given him to think.

Molesley had always been a bit of a sad sack. Even in his position as Carson's professional equivalent - _technically_ \- as the butler at the Dower House, he'd not much impressed. And in a lesser capacity at Downton Abbey proper he'd always been rather more eager than efficient. But how his life had turned about in this past year. The man had attained professional success at fifty, in a career in which he'd had no formal training. _And_ \- apparently - there was a turnabout in his private life as well, with prospects in the offing regarding Miss Baxter. Carson didn't begrudge him either of these - much as he marvelled at the former - but certainly not the latter. If he'd only get on with it, Molesley might enjoy twenty more years of marital felicity than he could possibly hope for himself, and good on him. Thinking of Molesley and Miss Baxter _in that way_ , Carson had to admit to himself that they were well matched, the two of them, both fragile souls. He and Elsie were bolder characters and he was glad of it. He liked a strong woman, and someone like Elsie would have overwhelmed a straw man like Molesley.

So there was Molesley, who had to all intents and purposes vanished from his mind, resurrected in his thoughts and, on the very next morning, there he was coming out of the school, his arms overflowing with notebooks and papers. He might be a teacher now and enjoy a professional credibility that reflected his determined commitment to self-education, but Carson's perception of him had hardly shifted.

He'd never liked Barrow, but had always felt he was at least grappling there with a worthy opponent. He'd never been able to say the same about Molesley, a sentiment he believed he and Barrow shared. Molesley was kind and well-meaning and competent, to a degree, which ought to have been enough to secure him a cordial relationship with Downton's formidable butler. But Carson had felt the man needed constant propping up and that took too much valuable time and energy. But that was all behind them now, and Carson was always courteous, if not friendly, and so he greeted the man.

"Is the school now holding classes on Saturdays, Mr. Molesley?"

Of course, Molesley started, having been wholly absorbed in the task of keeping the pile of papers in his hands from flying away. "Mr. Carson! Good morning!" He came to an awkward halt and put a firm hand down on the topmost sheets. "I'm just...picking up some reports, assignments."

"You ask much of your students," Carson observed. He knew that the local school was not the most academically challenging of institutions. Years ago, he had attended a grammar school in Ripon rather the even-more-rudimentary village school, his parents determined to secure his future wherever he chose to pursue it.

"Well, I like to think they're capable of great things," Molesley replied in that halting, almost sing-song voice he had.

"How are things, then?"

"I've been blessed, Mr. Carson." Molesley made this declaration with the humility of someone who had taken a careful accounting of his blessings, and was not entirely certain they would not arbitrarily be withdrawn.

"Indeed?"

"I've not asked for much in life, Mr. Carson, and I've gotten less." He said this with that self-deprecating laugh of his. "But...things have changed for me. I had a good life in service, reached the pinnacle of achievement there - butler and valet at Crawley House. I wasn't like you, of course, not at the top, but...for me, I was pleased and I might have been...believed I would have been content there forever. But it all came apart and then I floundered for a good long while - well, you know that as well as anybody. The kindness of a few...you, you know, and, well, Mrs. Hughes..." Carson felt Molesley was being discreet here. They both knew Molesley owed what consideration he'd gotten at Downton to the housekeeper and her influence over the butler, rather than to the butler himself. "...gave me the chance to catch my breath. It created opportunities I didn't even see, helping Daisy. And then this happens." He paused for a few seconds to ponder his trajectory. "I wanted to be a teacher, but I had no hope of it. And now I am and...I think...I'm all right, no...I'm _good_ at it. Very good, in fact." It seemed difficult for Molesley to sing his own praises, partly perhaps because of an inherent modesty, but at least as much because it was something in which he'd had no practice. "I've found my feet again, Mr. Carson. And I love my work. I loved my old work, too. But...here I am, something new, and it's...wonderful. A whole new beginning."

This was so like Molesley. Ask a perfunctory question in politeness and he bared his soul in response, and at length, too. But it was quite an insight, too.

"And...you, Mr. Carson? How are things?"

The last time Molesley had asked him this, asked it seriously of him because he had walked in on a moment of distress, asked it out of consideration and kindness, Carson had snapped at him. And given him the wholly disingenuous response of "Never better!," followed by an ill-tempered rebuke about Molesley's livery. The memory of it gave him a pang of remorse. Elsie wasn't the only one to whom he had been a bear these many months past.

"I am well, Mr. Molesley. Thank you."

"And your..." Molesley didn't quite know how to put it, but of course he was determined to put it anyway, in his too-typical want of tactfulness.

Carson knew this was an awkward reference to the tremors that had derailed his career. "Manageable," he replied politely. Molesley might lack discretion, but he was not mean-spirited.

"And Mrs...Well! I suppose I can call her Mrs. Carson now, can't I? We're not at the Abbey anymore."

No, they weren't. "She is well, also. Thank you."

"Give her my regards, won't you?" Molesley said eagerly. "I don't get up there, nearly as often as I should." A little line of worry creased his forehead.

He was thinking of Miss Baxter, Carson thought. "You ought to make more of an effort in that direction." Molesley read nothing into it, of course, merely nodding. Carson made to move on, and then paused. "Mr. Molesley."

The man looked at him, his upturned face all eagerness and anticipation. So he had always looked when Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey, had demanded his attention.

"Congratulations on your new career. I wish you well in it." Carson paused for just another fraction of a second. "You're an inspiration, Mr. Molesley." And then he passed on. Molesley wouldn't grasp the significance of that statement either, but it was unnecessary that he did so. The lesson there, Carson knew, was for himself.


	7. Chapter 7: Realignments

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own, nor do I profit in any way from, the use of the characters, settings, plotlines, or ideas drawn from Downton Abbey. Everything belongs to Julian Fellowes.

 **Chapter 7 Realignments**

"So you've sorted things out with Barrow?" Robert posed the question to his walking companion as they set out together on Monday morning.

"I have, my lord," Carson replied, and then explained in detail.

Robert listened attentively, nodding at the appropriate moments. A habit of dispassion, cultivated over a lifetime, concealed his emotional response. It was always wise to hear all the facts first. "And you're pleased with this arrangement?" he asked when Carson had finished.

"I am, my lord." Carson spoke firmly, but he did not try to disguise his concern for His Lordship's reaction. "I hope I've not disappointed you."

These words stopped Robert in his tracks. "You've given your life to my family, Carson - to my father, myself, and my daughter. I could never be disappointed in you." Now he did speak with feeling, for he knew Carson would be genuinely concerned about this. "At this point, all I can hope for - all I want - is for you to be content. And if that is so, then _I_ am content."

Robert Crawley was the only man in whose presence Carson could relax his own emotional reserve. He swallowed hard. "Thank you," he said simply. "That means a lot to me."

They walked on.

"And you, my lord?" Carson asked at length.

Robert cast a knowing look at him, recognizing a leading question when he heard one. "In other matters, you mean," he said drily. "Well, no. I'm not content. I blame _you_. I took your advice in the matter of Pipp's Corner and it's landed me in hot water with Lady Mary - a place neither one of us ever wants to be..." Carson fully appreciated this. "...and still nothing is resolved."

"What happened?"

"I went to Pipp's Corner last week and had a chat with Mr. Cluett and several others of the villagers affected."

"And?"

"They're feeling neglected, Carson. And frustrated. They have some concerns - legitimate concerns, in my view - about the road. It's been little more than a quiet country lane and now it will become the primary route between the development and the high street in the village proper. They're worried about the safety of their children, as well as the noise and the bother of the increased traffic. This, of course, _is_ part of the price of development, but," he added pointedly, "they think no one's listening to them." Their eyes met over this. It pleased Robert, and brought him a measure of relief, to be able to discuss this with complete frankness and with someone who grasped the issues.

"And Lady Mary?" Carson asked delicately.

Robert shook his head impatiently. "Lady Mary won't let me get a word in crosswise, Carson. Whenever I say anything about any subject that isn't the weather or the children or...Tiaa," he gestured impatiently at the dogs trotting ahead of them, "...I am advised to take it easy, to leave all matters to her and Mr. Branson. Even Her Ladyship, who is thriving in her own work at the hospital and to whom I have offered the fullest support," he said this with emphasis, "is always encouraging me to leave off writing letters and to go for a walk or a ride or a nap!" He shook his head in disgust. "It's driving me bats."

Carson understood. His Lordship had always been an active man, both physically and in terms of his involvement in the affairs of the estate. He had walked the estate, knew his tenants by name and was aware of their circumstances. He was also well versed in how the individual parts fit into the larger whole. His had always been a powerful voice in village affairs, not so much in directing day-to-day matters as presiding over them, much as His Majesty the King reigned _above_ His government, although, of course, on a much smaller scale. And now he had become the figurehead in a regency headed by Lady Mary. The aggravation was patent. This had not, however, happened in a vacuum.

"They're frightened, my lord," Carson said gently. "That moment in the dining room and the night that followed... _I_ was frightened." The eruption of His Lordship bleeding ulcer in the midst of a formal dinner had made for one of the worst nights of Carson's life. The rest of the staff, including Mrs. Hughes, had waited for news from the hospital in the servants' hall where a tense, silent atmosphere had prevailed. He had sat in his pantry next to the telephone, alone by choice, veering erratically between earnest prayers and impatient oaths as he willed the instrument to ring and end the torment. He had lost no one close to him since the death of His Lordship's father, a quarter of a century earlier and he'd quite forgotten the anguish that came with any brush with mortality. It had also acutely focused his awareness, as such moments always did, on just how much Robert Crawley meant to him. From this perspective, the continued solicitude of His Lordship's family in matters of his health as entirely understandable.

Robert gave a cursory nod in acknowledgment of this, but he also made an impatient sound. "Believe me, Carson, _I_ was frightened. But I've recovered. _And_ learned from it. _And_ I can't spend the rest of my life swaddled in wool lest I catch cold."

That, of course, was true, too.

"Then you must persist, my lord. They'll come round."

The expression on Robert's face was a sceptical one. "It suits Lady Mary," he said. "She enjoys running the show."

"Lady Mary must learn that she can't have it all her own way," Carson muttered, almost under his breath.

Robert glanced sharply at him and had to suppress a smile. Carson had said that almost as much to himself as to him. They both walked a fine line with Lady Mary, Robert knew, sharing a father's love for her, but each having been buffeted about by the squalls of her powerful personality. They never spoke of it. It was every man for himself when it came to those battles.

They passed several moments in companionable silence. Robert was glad of Carson's fellowship. It was satisfying to be able to voice his frustrations and so order his mind that he might return better equipped to the fray. But he was temperamentally disposed to pleasant conversation on a pleasant walk, and so, setting aside these matters for further contemplation, he turned in a completely new direction.

"Now that you're out from under the burdens of responsibility and respectability, Carson, tell me about your life on the halls." Robert's eyes sparkled now with curiosity, and not a little mischief.

Carson stumbled, startled by the abrupt shift of the conversation but more particularly by the specific direction. He righted himself without Robert's intervention, but he could not restore his internal equilibrium quite so easily. Turning with dismay to His Lordship, he caught a glimpse in his mind's eye of young Master Robert, the good-natured boy who had sometimes followed him about the stables a half century ago. He had not seen that face in a long time. It gave him pause.

"Why did you go?" Robert continued, not at all deterred the look of consternation that had come over Carson. "What did you like about it? Why did you come back?" These questions had not exactly preyed on Robert's mind, but they _had_ lingered in some mental backwater ever since he had learned of this anomalous episode in Carson's past, brought to light by that brief encounter with the sordid Mr. Charles Grigg sometime before the war. It had never been appropriate to raise the matter with Carson while he was the butler at Downton Abbey. To have done so would have compromised the professional nature of their relationship. But things were different now.

Carson might have declined to respond. He knew that His Lordship would desist if he made it clear that he did not want to speak of it. For a moment, he considered. Things _were_ different now, something he must accept along with the decision about his future at Downton Abbey. And was it really such a terrible thing? Perhaps he was being stupid about it.

"Why do young men usually do foolish things, my lord? It was the draw of excitement, something different, a new world." Although he admitted the appeal to youth, Carson's disparaging tone left Robert in no doubt of what he thought of such reasons now. "I'd wanted service. I'd already served a few years as a footman, and I had my eye on advancement. But...then I saw a show. And I met Charles Grigg." He managed to invest that name with a seething contempt. "Discernment of character is a skill to be learned, I discovered. We aren't born with it. Charlie Grigg taught me that."

Robert listened, spellbound, at least as much by the fact of Carson's disclosure as the contents of speech.

"A world apart," Carson went on, letting himself remember. "Men and women of varying degrees of talent and magnetism. Such creative energy _and_ instability. Exhilaration and sordidness and living on the edge." Carson paused. "It _was_ fun," he admitted grudgingly. He didn't even look at His Lordship as he spoke. _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , he thought. Let His Lordship make what he wanted of this revealing glimpse into Charlie Carson's buried past. "But I couldn't see a future in it." He paused and other long-shrouded memories surfaced and his tone shifted a little, from placid reminiscence to just a hint of regret. "No," he said more quietly. "I _could_ see a future. But it didn't work out."

There was a moment of poignant silence.

"Ah," Robert said, in quiet understanding. "There was a girl."

Carson turned sharply with a rebuke in his eyes so clear that words were wholly unnecessary.

Robert was neither affronted nor put off. "It happens to us all, Carson. It's just life."

Such airy pronouncements stood at odds with the sudden emotional jolt of that long-ago disappointment. Best to ignore it and move along. Carson cleared his throat.

"I returned to Downton and was fortunate to find His Lordship and Mr. Finch willing to take me back."

"My father always liked you," Robert said. " _He_ was a discerning man," he added reflectively. "And I have benefited greatly from his good judgment." His thoughts drifted for a moment to his father, whom he had always regarded with great affection. The pause allowed Carson to hope.

"Was it a letdown for you, returning to service?"

So they weren't done with it yet. Carson sighed.

"No. I hadn't rejected service in leaving it. I'd just gone to a...different stage. It came to me, when I returned to it, that service in a great house was, in a sense, a kind of theatre itself - costumes, roles, lavish settings. Endless drama. Even the behind-the-scenes setting of the scene, if you like. And then, the performance itself."

Carson was oblivious to the transformation in his tone and countenance as he related this. But Robert, observing in Carson an unfamiliar level of animation, was mesmerized.

"And it wasn't just the performance," Carson went on. "I had ambitions. It was possible, in service, to rise above a...a junior role, as it were, to the greater responsibilities of direction and choreography, as well as, of course, the leading role." His great baritone infused these words with more magic than he could himself have realized. A glance at His Lordship's rapt expression dimmed his exuberance. "In a manner of speaking, my lord." But then he added, because he could hardly resist doing so, "I have always loved the _style_ of life in a great house."

Robert felt an impulse to applaud, though he suppressed it. His waggish questions had yielded more from Carson than he could ever have expected. He enjoyed the insight and was grateful for the confidence. He could see what Carson meant and how it had translated into the way Carson had _played the butler's role_ at Downton Abbey. It saddened Robert a little to have been admitted to this understanding. _We won't have that again_ , he told himself. But then, he supposed, no one else had ever experienced it. He could not, for example, ever imagine that sourpuss retainer of Lord Sinderby's speaking thus of the butler's position. _Carson is a showman_ , he thought, and that element in his character had brought something special to Downton for a time.

"I understand the initial impulse," Robert said, moving the conversation to more temperate waters, for Carson's sake. "Young men feel the pull to get away, do something on their own. I admire your courage in taking such an...unusual...step."

Carson just rolled his eyes, clearly less impressed with his youthful self than His Lordship appeared to be.

"I wanted that, too," Robert went on. "I knew my duty to Downton, of course, and I willingly embraced it. But I believed my father would preside here for many years and I wanted to make a name for myself on my own merits. That's why I became a soldier." He caught Carson's eye. "We're not so different in that, you and I."

Carson would have none of it.

"My lord, you served your country. I made a fool of myself in public."

Robert could only laugh at Carson's determination to heap ridicule on a colourful past. "You make too much of it, Carson. You take yourself too seriously."

"So Mr. Grigg always told me," Carson responded acidly, indicating precisely what he thought of that sentiment.

Brushing aside the unflattering comparison, Robert seized on a different aspect. "Do you remember anything from those days? Songs? Routines? Tricks? Can you juggle?"

He had finally crossed the line.

Carson came to an abrupt halt. He stood there on the green-leafed path, half-caught in the flickering shadows cast by branches swaying in the gentle breeze, his whole body rigid with a level of conceit even he had seldom before achieved.

"My lord, you have me at a disadvantage. You have a call upon my heart and mind and person that is almost unparalleled. But I do really do _not_ want to speak about this any more!" He did not attempt to disguise the heat in his voice, which was only a reflection of his sentiments.

Robert desisted in good humour, though he did sigh a little. Juggling had always fascinated him. "I'll let it go, Carson," he said reassuringly. Much as it pained him, he meant it. He was a man of honour even in small things.

Carson was not really so annoyed with His Lordship and they both knew it. A relationship of confidence did not require full disclosure and they both knew that, too. It struck Carson, though, that their always comfortable association had shifted a little and only in the past few days. They had always interacted within the formal structure of their professional relationship. They would never, either of them, abandon that form, but they might relax it every once in a while.

"Lady Hexham is coming to Downton the week after next," Robert said, after a while. He paused for just a second to enjoy the sound of that name _Lady Hexham_. "Just a short visit, on her way back from London. Then they'll be back - Lord and Lady Hexham - later, after the baby is born, for the christening." He was referring to the imminent birth of Lady Mary's child. "It'll be an elaborate production, Carson," Robert added, as a bit of an aside. "George's should have been the grand event - he is the heir, after all - but in the circumstances..."

Carson understood. The tragic death of Matthew Crawley in a car accident on the day of his son's birth had cast a pall over the whole house for months. The birth of an heir and his christening ought to have been highlights of the local season, marked in the village with streamers and firecrackers. All had been draped in crepe instead.

"So, they'll do it up right this time, girl or boy, and regardless of rank."

Henry Talbot's child would have no claim on the estate of Downton Abbey. The artificial division of Downton brought on by the crisis of His Lordship's financial errors in 1921, a calamity remedied when Matthew Crawley invested his own inherited fortune in Downton and bought half of the estate outright, would be closed when Master George succeeded to the title of Earl of Grantham. His mother had already declared that she would rectify the aberration of a divided ownership by reuniting the constituent parts in her first-born son when that occurred. The children of Lady Mary and Henry Talbot would have to rely on other means to secure their fortune, as the younger children of great families had long had to do.

"We will also be throwing a gala affair exclusively for the Marquis and Marchioness of Hexham," Robert said. "Sort of an even-ing out of the favours." It wasn't easy, as a parent, distributing attention and gifts equitably among children, and Robert was uncomfortable with the perception, at least, that Edith had always come up short. He had consciously been trying to address this in recent years. "So...Barrow will have his hands full for the next couple of months," he said casually, casting a sidelong glance at Carson.

"I am certain he will rise to the challenge, my lord," Carson said smoothly. "And he shall have all my assistance and my support. At his discretion."

Robert smiled. Carson, he thought, was firming up his stance. He would soon be in a position to face Her Ladyship the Dowager once more.

"Mr. Barrow won't let you down, my lord," Carson added with confidence.

Robert trusted to the truth of this pronouncement, as he had always done of Carson's assurances. "They'll be bringing Miss Marigold with them," he said, his attention returning to Edith.

"I look forward to seeing the child again," Carson responded. He'd always been fond of the children of Downton Abbey.

The thought of his granddaughter broadened Robert's smile. The social strictures of class and time had prevented him from showing overtly how much joy his daughters had brought him. His grandchildren were giving him an opportunity to redress that and he was grateful for it. Change, he thought, wasn't _entirely_ a bad thing.

"So do I," he said warmly.


	8. Chapter 8: Reconsiderations

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **Chapter 8 Realizations and Reconsiderations**

 **Working Together**

The wine cellar looked exactly the same as it had the last time he'd been down there. It hadn't missed him at all.

Carson and Barrow spent the better part of Wednesday morning in the wine cellar, reviewing the fundamentals of wine care and maintenance, discussing the criteria of wine selection, and noting the idiosyncracies of Downton's facilities. Once he'd buried his own wistfulness at the end of an era, Carson admitted to a little pity for Barrow. At the behest of His Lordship's father, Carson had once spent ten glorious months in Bordeaux, training at some of the finest wineries in the world that he might bring an intimate and discriminating knowledge of wine to the dining experience at Downton when he succeeded to the position of butler. (Although the office of butler did not descend legally or inherently in the same way an earldom did, vested as that was in the system of primogeniture, still the terminology of succession was not wholly out of place in this instance. Carson's career at Downton had, almost in its entirety, been structured so as to bring him, eventually, to this situation.)

Carson was ever reluctant to praise the French, on principle and because he thought so little about them worthy of praise.* But he made an exception when it came to their wines and to those skilled craftsmen who produced them. His own too-brief sojourn among them remained one of the highlights of his life. Poor Barrow would just have to make do with what Carson could convey of this experience and its applications in his thirty-three years as butler at Downton. _Making do_ appeared to be the prevailing practice all around, these days.

The butler was an attentive and astute student, taking copious notes and asking pertinent questions. Later, as they ascended the stairs to the servants' floor, Carson was prepared to collect his dog from the housekeeper's sitting room, kiss his wife, and call it a day, at least insofar as further interaction with Barrow was concerned. It surprised him when Barrow invited him into the butler's pantry for coffee and more conversation. He surprised himself by accepting. While Barrow arranged for the coffee, Carson settled himself in the visitor's chair and suppressed the pang of longing that swept over him when his eyes settled on the place he had long occupied that was his no more. Best think no more of that.

All this solicitude on Barrow's part made more sense when the butler confessed to a sense of nervousness about presiding over the impending events of the christening of Lady Mary's and Mr. Talbot's child, and the dinner to honour the Marquis and Marchioness of Hexham.

"You should be nervous," Carson said. "It doesn't mean you're not ready. Great affairs are always nerve-wracking. It keeps you on your toes to worry about things. But you'll manage," he added.

"Is there any particular role you would like to assume in the proceedings, Mr. Carson?" Barrow asked casually.

Carson wasn't entirely sure whether Barrow _wanted_ him to take some part or was afraid he _would_. "I can advise you on the wines, if you like," he responded mildly. "And you should feel free to ask me questions about any matter than concerns you. I won't think less of you if you do." He took the cup and saucer Barrow held out to him and placed them gingerly on the desk. He often managed to drink a whole cup without suffering a spasm, but he could never be sure when one might strike and Shep was not here to give him an early warning. This reply did not wholly satisfy Barrow, but Carson was not moved to clarify it.

"What about the staff for these affairs?" he asked. Staffing. It was the perpetual challenge and the moment he mentioned it the look on Barrow's face told him it was weighing heavily on the butler's mind.

"Well, I'll have Andrew, of course. And Mr. Molesley said he would help. I've already spoken to him."

Carson was impressed with Barrow's initiative. "Very obliging of him," he said of Molesley. Their eyes met. They had both come rather grudgingly to a new level of regard for Joseph Molesley and neither of them felt comfortable with it yet.

"Of course that won't be enough, not for these events," Barrow went on.

"And your options?" Carson felt just a little as if he were testing the man, rather than expressing a professional interest, and realized how inappropriate that was. He needed to make a greater effort at collegiality.

If Barrow noticed, he didn't show it, perhaps because the problem itself absorbed his attention. "I can hire in the village or try to borrow some footmen from other houses."

Carson raised an eyebrow, asking the silent question.

"His Lordship supports the idea of village men, as a local favour."

This guarded response told Carson much more than the literal words conveyed. "And you, Mr. Barrow?" He could see the indecision in the man's eyes. Barrow could not determine if Carson were acting as His Lordship's man here or whether this was a conversation between two butlers. How he decided this question would be a reflection of the level of trust in their new relationship.

"I would prefer to have men already trained to the tasks," Barrow said finally, coming down on the side of amity. "I don't have time to train new men up properly."

A pause ensued.

"I agree with you, Mr. Barrow. The family won't be going to London for the Season this year, not with Lady Mary's condition. But other families will go. That will leave some underemployed footmen on half-pay in the neighbourhood. Not all houses are of equal quality or butlers all so cooperative. I can make up a list for you and you can write the letters. Mention my name if you think it will help."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, but..."

"You should put it to His Lordship, Mr. Barrow."

A flash of gratitude at this perhaps unexpected endorsement disappeared behind a look of consternation. "Can I do that?"

 _Here_ , Carson said to himself, _is where experience puts physical ability in its place every time_. "You _are_ the butler, Mr. Barrow. These grand affairs are _your_ shows. You must be able to rely on your staff. Their performance will reflect on you."

"But His Lordship..."

"The position of butler in a great house is one of immense responsibility, Mr. Barrow." He was certain Barrow knew this very well in the abstract, but was perhaps only now coming to terms with its practical implications. "You are the butler of Downton Abbey." Every time he said this, the reality of it became clearer to him. "His Lordship is, of course, your employer and, in the end, if he insists, his will must prevail. But obsequiousness and sycophancy have no place in your job description. Know what you are about and stand your ground, when you're in the right, even against His Lordship. I'm not advising you to be rude or to assume airs beyond your station. I'm telling you to do your job to the best of your not inconsiderable abilities. His Lordship will respect you for it."

A look of what might have been stunned disbelief marked Barrow's features for a moment, and then this disappeared under a semblance of humility. "I haven't got your credibility, Mr. Carson," he said quietly.

"I should hope not!" Carson snorted. "My working relationship with His Lordship is the product of a quarter of a century's close association. It's not something that happens overnight, even when you've been acquainted with him in another capacity. I was once in your position, appointed as butler to His Lordship's father on the premature death of Mr. Finch. We grew in our understanding of each other, His Lordship and I, as you will with his son. And with his grandson. Accept that it will take time."

Without conscious thought, Carson reached for his coffee. But when he lifted the saucer, his hand went into a violent spasm, spilling the liquid into the saucer. As the porcelain rattled against itself, he uttered an oath, vexed as he always was when this happened. He managed to get it down on the edge of the desk again without making a greater mess, though his hand continued to shake.

His impulse was to drop it to his side, but there was no hiding it. Barrow had seen it. Carson's eyes went immediately to the butler's, his jaw thrust out in irritated defiance. Barrow was not unaware of his condition. He had been there, at the reception for Lord and Lady Hexham on New Year's Eve, when an untimely eruption had brought Carson a great deal of personal humiliation. The incident itself had led directly to Barrow's appointment as his successor.

Right now Barrow's eyes were wide with what looked like shock. He had not _seen_ the tremors themselves on New Year's Eve, but only their aftermath in Carson's outburst. For a moment they both just stared at each other.

"Does it hurt?" Barrow said finally, his voice quiet, no nuance of smugness or self-satisfaction to be heard. It was the same question His Lordship had asked. They had no idea.

"Only my pride," Carson said evenly.

He'd embarrassed Barrow with this self-pitying utterance. "It isn't that I don't want to play a role at Downton, Mr. Barrow, or to help you in more tangible ways. But that I can't. I can have no public presence here. I cannot _do_ things."

And Barrow appeared to understand. He nodded. "You are more than generous as it is, Mr. Carson. I appreciate it."

The door creaked open then, breaking the fraught atmosphere, and they both looked over to see an elegant collie stepping cautiously into the room. When Carson's eyes met his, the dog, moved to his side. Carson put a still-trembling hand down into the dog's carefully groomed mane, ruffling it affectionately. When his master came to the Abbey, Shep spent his time curled up in Mrs. Carson's sitting room.

"He always comes to me when it happens," he said, by way of explanation, with a glance at Barrow.

"I wish he fit into a livery," Barrow murmured, not half-joking.

There was no point in prolonging this interview. Carson got to his feet. "I'll be off, then."

Barrow also stood. "Would you be able to come around again next week, Mr. Carson? I found our conversation today...helpful."

Carson inclined his head. Barrow was playing the noble part here and it was his role to acknowledge it.

Man and dog moved toward the open door. Carson noticed in passing the empty shelf where he had once kept a series of valuable reference books - _Burke's Peerage_ , _Burke's Landed Gentry_ , and an atlas with which he and a very young Lady Mary had explored the world. Barrow had no books, not in this room anyway. But taped to the shelf was a child's drawing. The subject was not immediately identifiable, as was the case with the artwork of many a youngster. But the object itself brought Carson up short.

Barrow noticed. "It's a present from Master George," he said hastily, coming round the desk and advancing to Carson's side. "He brought it down yesterday afternoon. It's a drawing of him on my back, pretending we're a knight and his trusty steed." He laughed a little, but it was a nervous sound.

Glancing at him, Carson saw that Barrow's lower lip was pushed out in the that way he had when he'd been reprimanded. _Have I always been so critical of him?_ he wondered. His eyes went back to the drawing, but his mind had turned to memories of a dark-haired, dark-eyed little girl who had captured his heart so long ago.

"Lady Mary used to draw in the accounting and wine ledgers," he said. "They're still there." He gestured toward the thick volumes neatly arranged on a high shelf behind the butler's desk. "She spent hours down here as a child. Sometimes she helped me polish the silver." He stopped abruptly. He had a myriad of memories and stories about her, but had no inclination to share more of them with Mr. Barrow.

"Well, I doubt I'll see that much of Master George," Barrow said, as if steeling himself for an unpleasant reality. "He has Mr. Talbot in his life and all, now."

Carson looked at him. "That won't make a difference. They need all the love they can get, Mr. Barrow." His eyes shifted to the drawing once more. "As do we all," he murmured. Then he cleared his throat. "You ought to leave off the piggy-backing, though. It's not dignified." He nodded his goodbye and left before the memory of formal tea parties with a five-year-old became too vivid.

 **A Life's Study**

As Carson and Shep came around the side of the house, Lady Mary was emerging from the front door. The car stood in the drive and Mr. Stark waited nearby. But Lady Mary was distracted.

"Carson!"

He was on his way back to the cottage. Elsie had shooed him off, as she was in the middle of an accounting muddle and emphatically did _not_ want his assistance or his interference. He'd taken his kiss from her and left her in peace. His thoughts were wandering the pleasant pastures of memory when his eyes lit on the focus of those memories, his little girl now all grown up.

"Lady Mary." He came to her side.

"Are you away to the village?" she asked.

"Just to the cottage, my lady."

She directed Stark to take the car to the road and wait for her there, electing to walk the distance of the drive with Carson and Shep.

"Ought you to do so, my lady?" he asked anxiously, a discreet reference to her very delicate condition. She was a good eight months gone. It was his considered opinion that she should stay close to home and do as little as possible.

She discerned his intent and groaned and rolled her eyes. "I'm not a china doll, Carson. Moving about is supposed to be good for me. So long as it isn't too strenuous. I'm only off to the village."

He gave her a sceptical look.

"If it will make you feel any better," she said, and she linked her arm through his.

The gesture did not assuage his concerns for her health, but did evoke a smile. He was pleased and proud to be in her company.

"I'm glad to have run into you, Carson. There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"And I you, my lady," he said, now that the opportunity presented itself.

"Really?" she looked intrigued.

He deferred to her.

"Barrow told His Lordship and me and you're going to write a book about Downton!"

He had not expected this.

"Did he," he said drily. The damned scoundrel. And to think he'd just been having generous thoughts about the man.

"Something about the stories and provenance of all the treasures in the house," she went on. "He seems to think it might be useful in the event that we opened Downton to the public again. People did seem to ask a lot of questions," she added, in a bemused tone. "I felt a bit stupid knowing nothing about the house I'd lived in all my life." She didn't sound as though she doubted her own intelligence.

Carson said nothing. He was distracted by the prospect of telling Elsie that the scheming Mr. Barrow had not, after all, changed his spots. And also by the compulsion to wring the man's neck. Carson did not like to be manipulated, especially not by the likes of Thomas Barrow.

"I'm not sure it's such a good idea," he said finally, as Lady Mary appeared to be expecting a response.

To his surprise, she nodded. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Carson, because I have a better idea. The real story of Downton doesn't lie in those...things, but rather in the house itself and the family. Now _there_ is a story that's worth telling, and hearing, and who could tell it better than you? You know more about our family than anyone else!" The irony of this remark escaped her.

"'How can we hope to succeed in our future if we don't respect our past?' His Lordship said that. Or something like that. Once. And I agree. I want Master George to know where he comes from, Carson, so that the responsibilities of Downton will mean more to him than just keeping up a big house and employing a lot of people. I want him to appreciate that the Crawleys have played their part in the history of Yorkshire and of England, and that that contribution changes over time, so that he will still have his part to play." She looked up at him and fixed him with the enchanting gaze that had always enthralled him. "I remember how you brought stories of the family alive to me."

He was swayed. Barrow's idea was too linked to the crass material imperatives of the future and its tasteless manifestations in profit and tourism. But Lady Mary delivered the kind of rhetoric to which he was most susceptible, playing as it did on his love of history, his dedication to tradition, and his loyalty to the Crawleys, not to mention his vulnerability to the whims of Lady Mary.

For a moment he thought about it.

And then Shep licked his hand and the cruel reality of his own circumstances crashed down upon him. "That might have been possible once, my lady," he said quietly, with an air of disappointment. "But I am no longer _able_ physically to write at length, any more than I can pour wine or polish silver." He did not like to refer to his infirmity explicitly, especially to her, but it was better to nip this initiative in the bud. Lady Mary had a tenacious streak about her.

She frowned at him, frustrated by his outright rejection of her brilliant idea. She knew of his affliction in theory but, like Barrow until today, she had never seen it and so had no real idea of its implications. "You don't have to produce it by tomorrow, Carson. You could work on it in pieces. Think about it. Will you?"

He had never been able to resist her, so he nodded, even though he knew there was no practical reality to her suggestion. Shaky hands closed so many doors. He could only hope that it would slip her mind as the events of her own life overtook her.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asked brightly.

He knew she would not be so sparkling when he told her.

"Pipp's Corner," he said.

She groaned and gave his arm a reproving squeeze. "Not you, too, Carson. Between you and His Lordship, there'll be a revolution there before the week's out!"

"Now, my lady, I'm not the revolutionary type. You know that." He could tease her a little, too. But his interest was something rather more serious. "I suppose that it's really more His Lordship that concerns me," he added.

"What about him?"

"He is troubled, my lady." He had to tread carefully here. His Lordship had not asked for his intervention. Yet he saw the problem as more a matter of Lady Mary's attitude than anything else and something that must be approached directly.

"He _is_ too involved," Lady Mary said, as if this was what Carson had meant. "I've tried to discourage him, Carson. But he persists."

"You misunderstand me, my lady," he said gently. "I believe His Lordship needs to become _more_ involved." When she gaped at him, he went on. "He is a vigorous man in middle age," he said forcefully. "He had a blow, it's true. But he's recovered physically. But he also needs to recover his life."

She stared at him for a minute, unbelieving and not a little shocked. He thought perhaps she was getting set to lecture him about overstepping the mark, taking on airs, pretending to an authority he did not have. She'd said as much to him, admittedly out of hurt, before. But he was prepared to stand his ground on this, as he always was in matters of great importance and when he felt she was in the wrong.

Perhaps indignation and irritation did bubble to the surface, but she took a deep breath and they melted away before a semblance of authority and confidence. "I have everything in hand, Carson," she said formally. To his alert ears this sounded like a stock reply, issued as a stop-gap measure until she could think of something better.

"Will you not have to suspend your own involvement in estate affairs for a short time?" he asked delicately, another discreet allusion to her condition. "Would this not create an opportunity for His Lordship to resume a more active role?"

"Mr. Branson will pick up the slack. He and I are agreed, Carson, that His Lordship should not be troubled with the aggravations of estate management." She sighed. "Pipp's Corner is a petty squabble. I don't want to drag him into it. It irritates me enough as it is. He shouldn't have to cope with it."

She spoke with certainty, but she was still prepared to listen to him, he could tell that. "If I may say so, my lady, boredom and feeling that one is without use or worth may be as debilitating as physical or intellectual strain. Is not Pipp's Corner a situation that lends itself only too well to His Lordship's talents for arbitration? Has he not shown himself to be a master diplomat in village affairs for decades? There is a role for him to play, my lady. It's important to him, and for him, that he be allowed to play it."

For a long moment they walked in silence, he wondering how he might strengthen his argument and whether she was at all persuaded.

At length, she put her free hand on his arm and looked up at him again. "You speak with feeling in this, Carson."

"I do speak from the heart, my lady," he agreed emphatically. "And from experience, the experience imposed on me by my own physical limitations these past several months. I also speak from concern for someone I have respected and admired almost all my life."

She was staring into his eyes now, studying him carefully. He knew that she knew the extent of his regard for Robert Crawley. And that she knew, as well, that he was telling her the truth as he saw it. There had never been dishonesty between them.

"There's no shame in easing off, Carson," she said, and he was aware that she was not speaking only of her father in this.

"There's not much satisfaction in growing old before your time, my lady," he responded, unconsciously echoing words the Dowager had spoken to him not long ago.

"I worry about him, Carson. You were there that night, at dinner. You saw that ghastly scene." She shuddered at the memory, and he withdrew his arm from hers that he might put it around her and offer her more comfort thereby.

"And I prayed for him the whole night, my lady, as you did."

"Probably with more effect," Lady Mary muttered. Her faith arose more from need in specific crises than deep conviction.

"But you can't live your life governed by fear of what _might_ happen, my lady. You know that as well as anyone. Life requires risks of all sorts." Their eyes met over this. Conflict and crises had not too long ago brought Lady Mary to this conclusion where her own life was concerned.

They were almost at the end of the drive. Lady Mary stopped and he stopped with her.

"Are you telling me I should yield to His Lordship an active management role in the estate, Carson?"

"That is not for me to say, my lady. Only I think you might reconsider His Lordship's place in the running of Downton."

" _Might_ , Carson? Not _must_?"

He gave her a knowing look. "You were never one to respond to an order, my lady."

She laughed. "Why is it that you are the only person who understands that about me, Carson?"

He knew he wasn't alone in this, but in the moment, he wanted to be the only one in this world with her. Sometimes, as now, when his eyes rested on her, his heart ached with the fullness of the love he felt. "Perhaps because I have made a life study of the matter, my lady."

 *** AUTHOR'S NOTE:** The prejudice against the French suggested here is entirely the perspective of the character and reflects a world where British subjects routinely identified themselves as Francophiles and Francophobes, Germanophiles and Germanophobes, sometimes with significant repercussions for European stability. Although such sentiments were rarely expressed overtly in _Downton Abbey_ itself, they would not have been incompatible with either the era or someone like Carson.


	9. Chapter 9: Always Possibilities

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **Chapter 9 There Are Always Possibilities** *

"But why is Lady Hexham coming _here_?" He stood in the middle of the sitting room, his hands outstretched, the look on his face one of incomprehension.

He'd asked the same question several times already, ever since she'd delivered the news last night, and she still didn't have an answer for him. "Search me," she said again, and didn't bother to make any guesses. They'd already been over that ground and he clearly had found no satisfaction in any of her suggestions.

The Marchioness of Hexham, formerly Lady Edith Crawley, was visiting her parents for a few days as a stopover on travels between her London office and her home at Brancaster Castle in Northumberland. It puzzled Elsie just as much as it did her husband that Lady Hexham should want to spend part of this short visit with the Carsons, but the family often did inexplicable things and she had never spent much time trying to figure them out. It was hardly ominous, no matter what. And it might be as simple as Lady Hexham's desire to avoid her sister's company. Lady Mary, who was expected to give birth any day now, was in almost continuous residence at the Abbey and was not in the best of temper, just wanting the whole ordeal to be done with. Elsie wouldn't have blamed Lady Hexham for seeking a distraction anywhere she could find it, although why she sought it with the housekeeper and the former butler when she had never enjoyed their company before remained a mystery.

"We'll fine out soon enough," Elsie said, glancing at the clock on the mantle.

The novelty of a visit from the second of the Crawley daughters prompted the Carsons to different responses, reflecting their individual natures. He was highly agitated. Nothing in the place was good enough for a marchioness, but there was little enough they could do about it. He had resorted to making sure that everything was cleaned and polished within an inch of its life and despairing over even the slightest blemish. In vain did his wife remind him that this was not some unknown and possibly unreasonable potentate, but simply Lady Edith in the guise of a new title. Only when she pointed out to him that Lord Grantham and, indeed, Lady Mary had been entertained in this same cottage without a collapse of the world order in consequence of their having to sit in ordinary chairs and take tea from a plain service, did his frantic manner calm a little. As Elsie well knew, if things were good enough for Lady Mary, then they were good enough for anyone.

Elsie was more phlegmatic about the whole business. She could not imagine why Lady Hexham had asked to join them for tea, but she was curious and enjoyed a variation to the usual routines. Lord Grantham had become a regular visitor, though he only made it past the door on rainy days. Lady Mary had brought Master George once and come on her own a few times, a reflection of her affection for Mr. Carson. But there was no anticipating Lady Hexham's motives.

She had walked down from the Abbey and Shep announced her arrival with the single sharp bark he reserved for such occasions. The Carsons had had a brief debate about whether to put the dog out in the back garden and had not resolved it, so Shep was there at the door to greet their visitor, too.

Mr. Carson welcomed Lady Hexham into their house with the grace he had always displayed when on duty at Downton Abbey, but his wife could see that he remained flustered. She, in contrast, took it all in stride. It did not matter to Elsie Carson whether she was entertaining a king or a cook. She was determinedly egalitarian in her hospitality.

"This is quite lovely," Edith said, looking around the sitting room. "I've never been in a cottage before," she admitted, and looked uncomfortable saying so. "It used to be we never even thought of these things - visiting the cottages, having conversations with the maids - and now it seems so foolish and haughty not to have done so."

"Things change," Elsie said airily. She was a succinct philosopher. "Would you like some tea, my lady?"

Mrs. Carson did not give a thought to the question of whether or not she might sit in the presence of a marchioness. This was _her_ house and in it she followed her own rules. Mr. Carson wavered, surrendering only when it became more awkward for him to remain on his feet than it was disrespectful to do otherwise. Shep gave the visitor a cursory sniff and then went to curl up by the grate, untroubled by social conventions.

Mrs. Carson made a polite inquiry about Lord Hexham. She had seen very little of him but had a favourable impression. He seemed to be a kind, sweet man, the sort any parents would be glad to have marry their daughter, even without a title, a fortune, and a very large castle. Carson was more interested in Miss Marigold.

"She's thriving," Edith said, responding with enthusiasm to his query. "Although she misses her cousins and the rest of the family, as well. Brancaster is a gigantic place and we're still looking out children on the estate with whom she might play."

It was known in the Downton Abbey servants' hall that Lord and Lady Hexham were in the process of officially adopting Miss Marigold, going through the formalities that the child might legitimately take her place in their lives. But it seemed to Elsie that Lady Hexham had thrown caution to the wind, at least here in this sitting room. If the Carsons did not already know that the child was her own flesh and blood by Michael Gregson - and they did - Lady Hexham appeared not to be very concerned about them finding out.

"We'll all be here for the christening," Edith went on. "You'll see her then."

A moment of silence, not entirely devoid of awkwardness, followed. This occasion was Lady Hexham's initiative and it was for her to explain her presence.

"You're wondering why I asked to meet with you today," she began, addressing that question. "I wanted to speak to you, Carson, and thought we might be more comfortable all around if Mrs. Hughes was also present." She nodded amiably in the housekeeper's direction and then turned to Carson again. "I was never your favourite and I've no claim on your life in retirement."

He blustered a bit at that. What she said was true, although spoken so bluntly it cast him in an ill light. But Lady Hexham's smile was so gentle it mitigated her words.

"I only meant to say that I'm sure my request has caused you some bewilderment, so let me put you at your ease immediately by telling you that I am not here in my social capacity as the Marchioness of Hexham or even as a member of the Crawley family, but as the owner and publisher of _The Sketch_. It didn't seem appropriate to have a professional conversation at the Abbey where we would both be constrained by our history and our ranks."

This mention of Lady Hexham's publishing concern only perplexed the Carsons all the more. Mr. Carson had never even seen the magazine and he was still not sure that he wholly approved of Lady Hexham's plunge into so public a sphere. Mrs. Carson _had_ seen a few issues lying around the Abbey and, to satiate her always active curiosity, had thumbed through them, more recently in search of the column written by the Dowager's butler, Mr. Spratt. It was, she had to concede, an attractive publication, but one aimed at women of a higher social bracket than her own. Apart from the novelty of insight into Mr. Spratt's always elusive character, it had not much interested her. She could make no connection between the glossy pages of _The Sketch_ and Lady Hexham's sudden interest in Mr. Carson.

Edith discerned their polite bafflement and moved to put them at ease. "A conversation at the dinner table two nights ago gave me an inspiration. We were talking about the christening and then about the dinner my parents want to have for Lord Hexham and myself later this summer. This got me thinking. Well," she added, more self-consciously, "it was actually when we started talking about how such great events have become less common in recent years. Since the war, really. You know what I mean," she said, meeting Carson's wistful gaze.

He sighed. "It was a different age, before the war."

"Well, it occurred to me that my readers might like an account of how one puts such an elaborate dinner together - an event part entertainment, part spectacle. And I wanted to ask you, Carson, if you would write such a piece for _The Sketch_."

It was one of the more astounding proposals that either of the Carsons had heard in their decades at Downton Abbey. Elsie couldn't decide which was more startling - the idea itself or that Lady Hexham should approach Mr. Carson. Glancing at her husband, she could see him scrambling to get his bearings.

Edith smiled encouragingly. "I am perfectly serious," she said, the almost laughing lilt in her voice meant to disarm them. She looked from one to the other, perhaps hoping that Mrs. Carson might be of some assistance in moving the conversation forward.

But the housekeeper was not quite up to the task. "An article on a grand dinner, my lady? But who would read it?" She could well imagine almost anyone wanting to _attend_ such a dinner, but it boggled her mind to think of anyone wanting to _read_ about one.

"A great many women, Mrs. Hug..." Edith broke off for a moment, looking frustrated. "Do you really prefer to be called Mrs. Hughes? Would you mind if I called you Mrs. Carson?"

Already disoriented by the direction of the conversation, Carson frowned at this new diversion. Lady Hexham appeared set on disordering the world in as many ways as possible this afternoon.

Elsie smiled. "I should prefer it, my lady," she said, ignoring the alarmed look on her husband's face. No doubt he was thinking only of what His Lordship might think of that. "We abide by the convention of the house when we are at Downton, of course, and do so willingly," she added, for his benefit.

Edith rolled her eyes. "You mean, you humour His Lordship. I thank you for it, but you _are_ Mrs. Carson. I think even Papa would give in if anyone else made a serious effort to address you that way." She shared a sympathetic smile with the housekeeper and then went on. "As I was saying, I believe a great many women would enjoy it. I know my audience. There is a...a tremendous _curiosity_ out there about the lifestyle of the aristocracy. It's the same kind of interest that brought people in to see Downton for that hospital fund-raiser last year and that is drawing tourists, local and even international, to other great houses. People want to know about how things are done. Or," she added, " _were_ done, at any rate."

Well, that was a reason. But it was not, as Elsie well knew, a line of argument likely to appeal to her husband. He had objected strenuously to the house tour even though it had been Lady Mary's initiative, and he recoiled from the idea of exploiting the family's way of life for the crude purpose of making money. He reviled voyeurism of any sort. Elsie thought otherwise. The bills always had to be paid, was how she came to it. And she wondered exactly how Charlie thought the ceremonial excesses of the past were to be maintained without a significant source of income in the modern age of death duties and property taxes. Before he could speak and reject the notion altogether, Elsie hastened to elicit more information. Let him reject it, if he would, but on the basis of an informed foundation rather a reflexive impulse.

"What brought you to Mr. Carson for this, my lady?" She did wonder. It didn't seem his cup of tea at all, writing nostalgia pieces for a ladies' magazine.

"Lady Mary mentioned that she was encouraging Carson to write a book about Downton," Edith replied immediately. "And Barrow told me later that he had suggested something similar."

"Not this again." Though Charlie had only muttered it, Elsie could hear the disdain in his voice. They had talked it over a few times since Lady Mary had raised the possibility, but the topic always seemed to depress rather than inspire him. Whatever he might think of the proposition though, he knew well enough - even without the pointed look from his wife - to tread discreetly.

"They were only passing conversations, my lady."

Edith was not deterred. "They sound like good ideas to me, Carson. Barrow went on about your encyclopaedic knowledge of the house and Lady Mary was talking about a history of the family. I'm sure all of us put together know less than you do." She paused. "Except possibly granny."

Carson would not have disagreed with either of those assessments. But he hesitated. Watching him, Elsie noticed his hands flicking and thought she might know what was troubling him. Edith did not notice, but she was not wholly unaware of the circumstances of his retirement and knew, at least, that it had not been his choice.

"I'm not trying to do you a favour, Carson," she said easily. "I've had an idea which I think is a good one and I've approached the person I think likely to produce the best work. And I'll pay, of course, the going rate for articles we commission."

Her sincerity was apparent and he had to acknowledge that, even as tried to devise a way around rejecting it that would not involve embarrassment on his part. "My lady, I thank you for your consideration, but I am no writer."

"I hadn't written much of anything when Mr. Gregson asked _me_ to write a weekly column for _The Sketch_ ," she said encouragingly, taking what he said at face value. "He made the offer on the basis of a letter I wrote to the editor of _The Times_. Mr. Gregson said..." She was perhaps unaware of the effect, but when she said his name, her whole countenance brightened. "...that experience was rather less important than having something to say. And," she added, with a beguiling smile that radiated a charm all its own, "I think _you_ do. He was right about me and I'm fairly certain I'm right about you."

Carson was innocently vulnerable to the charms of the Crawley girls. Lady Mary held him perpetually in thrall, but he had on occasion found himself a captive of Lady Sybil's effervescent personality. He had never been drawn by Lady Edith's magnetism, but that did not mean he was immune to it. He felt it now, although he was perhaps simply inclined to humour her out of a habit of deference. Again he hesitated.

"I won't be governed by sentiment, Carson. If I don't like it, I won't publish it. I can be as hard-nosed as Sir Richard Carlisle in such matters!" she declared, her eyes round with determination.

A tense silence hung over them for a long moment and then all three shook their heads vigorously and said "No!"

This provoked laughter from Lady Hexham and a smile from Mrs. Carson.

"Well, perhaps not _quite_ so harsh," Edith admitted, with a rueful smile. "Besides, I doubt it will come to that. Lady Mary always said you were a wonderful story-teller. Not that I would know much about it," she added. "She used to spend hours downstairs when we were children, but she guarded her conversations with you jealously. I prevailed upon her only once. Even her garbled version of Richard Coeur-de-Lion captivated me."

It was an unexpected compliment. Carson smiled. He remembered the occasion with great fondness. Before he slipped into a blissful few seconds' reverie, he caught Elsie's sharp eye. She was looking at him with a mixture of warm indulgence and disbelief. "How on earth did you get onto that with Lady Mary?" she demanded.

"We talked about a lot of things," he said mildly. He turned to Lady Hexham, flattered by what she had said, but still bound by his own fundamental reality. "My lady, surely the butler at Brancaster would welcome such an opportunity. Or Mr. Spratt, who has already proven his...worth...to your publication." Carson held neither Mr. Spratt nor his magazine writing in high regard, but his intent in this moment was to deflect Lady Hexham's interest in _his_ role in this project.

Edith smiled. "I don't think so. Spratt is very good at what he does for us, but his style is very chatty. This piece requires an elegance of tone equal to the subject. As for Kitchen...it's true that Brancaster boasts an impressive tradition in precisely this kind of spectacle. Lord Hexham and his mother put on a great dinner last autumn to announce our engagement, and that was exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for. But...well, perhaps I'm prejudiced. I prefer the ways of the house in which I grew up and you presided on those occasions, Carson. And," she added, "I've attended a number of these events elsewhere and none of them have ever approached the style of Downton."

There was something about Lady Hexham's manner, an understated charm coupled with a still slightly self-conscious demeanour, that drew Carson despite himself. Lady Mary's whole bearing demanded attention, even without words. Her sister's appeal was more subtle and unobtrusive, but insistent all the same. She was not going to be put off by his clumsy deflections. He was going to have to tell her the truth.

"I'm still not sure who is going to read such an article," Elsie put in, mindful of her husband's unease and the reason for it, and trying a different tack. "Can anyone be that interested in how the table is laid?"

Carson was distracted. "This isn't about _laying the table_ , Elsie," he said, a little indignantly. "It's about setting a scene, creating an atmosphere for a cultivated level of social interaction, for diplomatic engagement, in which elegant people can..." He stopped abruptly, embarrassed by his sudden burst of animation. Clearing his throat, he nodded apologetically to his wife. "Beg pardon, " he mumbled.

But they were both looking at him, and as he shifted uncomfortably, Edith turned to Elsie. "See?" she said. "He's perfect!"

Well, he might once have claimed near-perfection in his work, but that was not the case anymore. It was time to end this pleasant indulgence. "My lady," he said firmly, turning his solemn gaze on Lady Hexham. "I thank you for your offer. I do. But I was obliged to retire from my position at Downton because of an ailment that made it impossible to continue to do my work. I can no longer pour wine, handle delicate serving dishes, or _write_." He spoke flatly and with finality. "Let me show you."

He stood and went to a writing desk in the corner of the room, returning with pencil and paper. He resumed his seat and, putting the paper on the small table beside the tea tray, he took up the pencil. Hardly had he begun to write than Shep roused himself from his slumber and moved to his side. Carson glanced up at his wife and they shared a knowing look. Shep's instinctive response was unerring. He had to write only three lines before a spasm seized his hand and he dropped the pencil. He tried to close his fingers around it once more, but the jerking of his hand made this all but impossible. Abandoning the effort he sighed.

"I cannot hold a pen long enough to write a grocery list, my lady, let alone a magazine article. Or a book." He spoke matter-of factly, but there was an air of dejection about him. Abruptly he stood up, without meeting the eyes of either of the two women. "I'm just going to put Shep in the garden."

Elsie and Edith sat in silence for a minute.

A wave of sadness for her husband swept Elsie. Things had picked up for him in the past few weeks. He seemed to be emerging from the veil of melancholy that had enveloped him since Christmas. The idea of a purposeful project wooed him, but the impracticality of it discouraged him. She hoped he wouldn't suffer a setback as a result. Idly she reached out to straighten the items on the tea tray.

"I had no idea," Edith said softly, and when Elsie looked up at the younger woman, she saw in her face an element of distress. "I've upset him and I'm sorry," she went on, meeting Elsie's gaze. Her sincerity was unmistakable and Elsie could not be irritated with her.

"Of course, my lady. It's only that Mr. Carson has had a time of it coming to terms with what this has meant for his working life."

Edith's large eyes rolled with acknowledgment of this. "I can imagine. I have some idea of how much Downton has meant to him."

Elsie would have been surprised if this were the case. It was her observation that Lady Hexham had not much noticed Mr. Carson over the years. Still, she seemed very earnest now.

"He did try to tell Lady Mary that he couldn't write her book, or any other, but...he found it difficult to put it to her."

This evoked a sarcastic laugh from Edith. "Well, it's hard to tell Lady Mary anything, isn't it," she said. She considered for a moment. "Do you think he would be interested in such a project if he _could_ do it, Mrs. Carson?"

"It doesn't matter what he _wants_ , my lady," Elsie said firmly, ever practical. "He cannot do it." And that was the end of it.

"How like my sister to dangle an exciting prospect before Carson and not give him the means to accomplish it," Edith said drily.

This distracted Elsie. _Lady Mary and Lady Edith, always at each other's throats_ , she thought, however accurate Lady Hexham's observation. "We don't speak ill of Lady Mary in this house," she said, smiling to let the young woman know what she thought of that.

Lady Edith sighed sympathetically. "Oh, I've been living with that even longer than you have, Mrs. Carson." She gave another little laugh and then a more determined look came over her. "I am not my sister," she said, rather fiercely, and her pale eyes gleamed with purpose.

Before Elsie could respond to that, Shep came trotting into the room again with his master on his heels. Elsie was glad to see that Charlie appeared to have regained his equilibrium.

"Is it only that you cannot physically write that deters you, Carson?"

"Isn't that enough?" He might have hoped that his exhibition had put an end to this conversation, but his experiences with Crawley tenacity of late had led him to abandon optimism.

"Well, no, actually."

"My lady?"

"I'll send you a stenographer."

Carson hadn't been so puzzled by a word since Lady Mary had told him that Lord Grantham had to have a gastrectomy.

Edith explained. "You can _say_ what you want and the stenographer will take it down in shorthand, type it up, and then you can review it and make any corrections you think necessary."

This was almost as startling a proposition as the article itself had been. "That's an idea!" Elsie was surprised by Lady Hexham's enterprise. She looked at her husband. "What do you think?"

He wasn't quite ready for such innovations. "Like a private secretary?" He thought in terms of Montagu Corry, who had famously served Prime Minister Disraeli in that office. Somehow this didn't seem appropriate in his circumstances.

"Well, not exactly," Lady Hexham said with a smile. "It would probably just be someone from my office who knows how to take dictation."

"Wouldn't that be expensive?" Carson asked, stalling while he thought about it.

Edith shrugged. "He or she - I'm really sure who might be available - can stay at Downton. I'll speak to His Lordship about it." She waited, watching him and glancing at Mrs. Carson in hopes of securing her support.

"I wouldn't want to waste your time...or money, my lady," Carson said eventually. He was torn. So much of who he had always been and almost all that he knew was trapped inside of him, with no meaningful way to exercise it any more, now that his hands were so unreliable. Lady Hexham was offering him an unimagined opportunity to unlock his knowledge, if only once. But could he manage it? Putting thoughts down on paper was one thing. _Telling_ those thoughts to someone was another matter entirely and one in which he had no experience. "I don't know that I could do it."

"You'll find that it gets easier with practice," Edith said confidently. "And you _have_ done it before, Carson." When he looked puzzled, she added, "Just imagine you're telling a story to Lady Mary."

Elsie laughed aloud at this and Edith turned to her with a pleased look on her face. Charlie was less convinced.

"And," Edith went on, "we could illustrate it with photographs. I'll have a photographer come up for the dinner at Downton, and you can go round with him and explain different stages of preparation."

"I don't know as Mr. Barrow would like that," Carson said, frowning, thinking that _he_ certainly wouldn't have.

"It's his show," Elsie reminded him. "He'll enjoy being the centre of attention. What name might Mr. Carson write under, my lady?" Despite her scepticism about the specific nature of this enterprise, she could see that Charlie was interested, even if he didn't quite believe in it yet.

"Why, his own, of course."

"Not a pseudonym, like Mr. Spratt?" Carson asked warily. The idea of his name in a popular magazine was just another disconcerting element. He eschewed notoriety.

"Spratt's credibility is dependent upon his anonymity," Edith explained. "If our readers knew that the 'agony aunt' column and fashion tips were written by a middle-aged bachelor butler from Yorkshire, no one would read them. But a behind-the-scenes account of a society dinner, in all its technical aspects and ceremonial glory, would only work if written by a legitimate authority. And Charles Carson's credentials in this field are impeccable."

He hesitated still. It was all too new to him.

"And," Edith hurried on, "seeing how it all works right under her nose might spur Lady Mary to hire someone to help you with the book _she_ wants you to write. Because clearly," she added acidly, "she hasn't been able to figure that out for herself. And when she does, Carson, make sure she pays you for it. Your knowledge and your memories are valuable. Don't just give them away."

That, Elsie was certain, was a losing battle, as she could tell from the look of resistance that immediately descended on her husband's face. He could, perhaps, be persuaded to accept money for an article in a commercial publication like _The Sketch_ , but he might well feel that anything he knew about Downton belonged to the family. Still, Elsie appreciated Lady Hexham's advice on the matter, even if it was grounded in part in competition with Lady Mary. One step at a time, though. First he had to agree to this initial experiment.

"Charlie? Do you have any _more_ objections?"

He had never made a precipitous decision in his life and he was not able to make one now, still suspicious of the idea itself, let alone the means which Lady Hexham had held out to him. She appeared to understand this.

"Think about it," she said, leaning forward a little and capturing his attention. There was an appealing aspect in her earnestness that was hard to resist. "I'm returning to Brancaster tomorrow. You may send me a telegram there with your answer. Only," and she paused, and somehow the intensity of her plea became more acute, "I really hope you will accept my offer, Carson."

It was not in him to resist calls upon his service, even in novel forms, from the family to whom he had dedicated his life. "I will think seriously about it, my lady. And...I thank you for asking."

The radiance of Lady Hexham's smile lit up the room. It was odd, really, how he'd never realized before what a lovely face she had. Perhaps it was because he'd seldom seen her smile. _Or perhaps_ , Elsie might have told him, _you never really looked at her_.

"I look forward to hearing from you then." Edith stood up and, as she did so, her gaze fell on the collie who also got to his feet and performed that elegant bow that all dogs make in stretching. She was distracted. "His Lordship mentioned that your dog is...sensitive to your...condition." Only the Dowager was prepared to name Carson's affliction in blunt terms.

"Yes," Carson said, his eyes dropping to the dog who stood at his side and whose great feathery tail was now swishing into him. "Shep knows when the...shaking...is about to start, my lady. He always comes to me then. It's a godsend, really, getting a warning."

"Well, when you're done this article, Carson, you could write a piece about...Shep." Edith said firmly. "Dog stories are all the rage. There's an American writer - Albert Payson Terhune - who's written a number of works about his collies. We couldn't use such a story in _The Sketch_ , of course, but I think I know where I could place it."

Lady Hexham followed this astonishing pronouncement with one final gesture, holding out her hand to Carson. He looked at it as if she were offering him Aladdin's lamp or some other suspicious alien oddity. He had shaken hands with His Lordship only three times, at momentous junctures in his own life. He had held the hand now extended toward him only once, long ago now, when he had rescued a young Lady Edith from one of Lady Mary's pranks. There was no precedent for this kind of interaction in her adult life.

"This is a matter of business, Carson," Edith said, not entirely successful in suppressing a smile. He took her hand gingerly, reluctantly. His wife showed no such compunction when Lady Hexham also proffered the courtesy to her.

"Thank you for coming today, my lady. I'm sure Mr. Carson will...welcome your offer, once he's had a chance to think about it." She shot a meaningful look at her husband.

"I hope so," Edith said, and then, with one last glance about her, took her leave.

Elsie closed the door behind her and then turned to face her husband. "Well?"

"What do you think?" he asked, hedging.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "As if you have to ask! You, with so much to say, and Lady Edith now giving you the means to say it." But it was his decision to make. She thought he was persuaded, but knew he would need time to accept it. Best leave him to mull it over for a bit. In the meantime, she went to clear away the tea things.

Elsie was gratified by and grateful to Lady Hexham for this unexpected and surprisingly appropriate initiative. It was welcome in more ways than one. It issued a promising challenge to a man who had found himself frustratingly at loose ends and did so without the aftertaste of sentiment or kindness that would have been almost inescapable had it come from either Lord Grantham or Lady Mary. Lady Hexham had, as she had indicated, no emotional context for her proposition. She owed the former butler of Downton Abbey nothing. It was, in its way, a powerful antidote to his wounded sense of self-worth.

"Although who has time to read fanciful stories about dinners or dogs escapes me!" Elsie said to no one in particular.

 ***A/N.** "There are always possibilities." A little _Star Trek_ allusion there. In general I don't subscribe to Captain Kirk's rejection of the "no-win scenario," as I think the compulsion to happy endings unrealistic. But Mr. Carson is my one weakness.


	10. Chapter 10: By Special Request

**ENOUGH OF THAT**

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own, nor do I profit in any way from, the characters, settings, or ideas drawn from Downton Abbey that may appear here. Everything belongs to Julian Fellowes.

 **Chapter 10 By Special Request**

 **Allies Again**

He was at the Dower House again, this time at his own request. It was a good five weeks on from that turbulent encounter in the Dowager's sitting room. Good fortune, or possibly just random circumstance, had prevented their meeting in the meantime and for this Carson was grateful. He was not in the least cowed by the Dowager Lady Grantham but, like Lord Grantham, he appreciated the value of an interview at a time of his own choosing. It never hurt to have as many cards in hand as possible.

Spratt met him at the door.

Carson exercised little mental energy over the man who served as butler at the Dower House. Although he had been there for several years, Spratt's almost anti-social behaviour ensured that he remained a stranger to the staff of Downton Abbey. Would that the same could be said of Her Ladyship's lady's maid Miss Denker who was all too familiar a face in the servants' hall at the big house where she dispensed a never-ending supply of gossip and innuendo. Much of what the Downton staff _did_ know about Spratt came to them through this medium which made most of it, in Carson's opinion, next to worthless.

The last time he had been here Spratt had greeted him in silence, responding in tight-lipped monosyllables to Carson's few words. Relieved of the need for pleasantries, Carson stepped into the house with only a nod to the man, and was surprised when Spratt himself spoke.

"Why are you here again?" he asked belligerently.

Carson pivoted on one heel, whirling on the man, startled as much by the fact of communication as by the words themselves. "I beg your pardon!" he said coldly.

Spratt's eyes bulged a little. He almost always looked as though he were about to explode. For a few seconds he returned Carson's glare, a challenging look in his eye. And then he relented, dropped his eyes, and took a half step back. Gesturing silently to the stairs, he led the way without another word. Carson could only shake his head in wonder.

As they approached Her Ladyship's sitting room, Carson could not help but recall conversations he had had with Lady Mary - Miss Mary, as she was then - a quarter of a century earlier. He had impressed upon her the cardinal importance of making an apology when one was in the wrong. He had laid emphasis on the fact that the identity of the wronged party was immaterial - a transgression against a footman or a hallboy or an undergardener was as serious as one committed against His Lordship or the Dowager Countess, and repentance to be as sincerely expressed, regardless of rank. This was a dictum of singular significance to him. In this specific matter, Elsie thought him more deserving of an apology from the Dowager than the other way around, but he knew she was wrong in this. It was of no consequence what Her Ladyship had _said_ to him. The impropriety here was all his own.

The Dowager clearly wasn't harbouring a grudge for she welcomed him with a cheerful greeting and a warm smile. Had she had any misgivings her demeanour would have been more aloof. Although she beckoned him into the room, she did not, of course, invite him to sit. He was relieved. All was as usual between them.

"Have you been to Downton to see my new great-grandson, Carson?"

Well, this explained in part the exuberance of her countenance. Lady Mary had given birth to a health baby boy only six days earlier, and mother and son were thriving. The event had made for a celebratory mood at the Abbey and in the village, and Carson had experienced this vicariously through Elsie and His Lordship and more directly in a visit with Lady Mary and Master Stephen, as they were calling the baby, only the day before.

"I have, my lady," he responded with feeling. It had warmed his heart to see Lady Mary's great happiness.

For a few minutes they exchanged notes on the remarkable child. Carson could appreciate the enthusiasm with which Her Ladyship spoke of the boy, even knowing she would have seen him only briefly and not held him. The Dowager cherished infant members of the family, but largely in the abstract.

Carson wasn't one to seize on a distraction to delay an unpleasant task, so the moment the conversation about Lady Mary's news lagged, he came to the point.

"My lady, I asked to see you that I might address the concerns you raised in our last conversation. But first, I wish to apologize for my behaviour toward you on that occasion. My display of temper was without foundation and entirely unacceptable. I hope you can forgive me."

He spoke in solemn tones and Her Ladyship listened to his words with an equally sombre expression on her face. Then she nodded in acknowledgment of his speech. "Thank you, Carson. I accept your apology and forgive the offense."

Though they occupied distinctly different strata of their society, Carson and the Dowager had gotten on so well over the years because of their common perception of the world and how things ought to work. It did not occur to the Dowager to absolve Carson of even partial responsibility for his outburst by referring to her provocation and he saw it as a sign of respect that she did not undercut the dignity of his apology by attempting to do so.

"Have you made any decisions about your future role at Downton, then?" she asked. It was a perfunctory question. She knew he had, else he would not now be standing here before her.

"I have, my lady. Mr. Barrow is the butler at Downton Abbey now and he will exercise authority in every aspect of that position. I will play no role, formal or informal, in the conventional sense. Mr. Barrow and I have met regularly these past several weeks to discuss a few of the issues arising from household management in which he still lacks confidence. And I have been...for lack of a better word, tutoring him...in the matter of wine care and management. We have established a...collegial...relationship." Carson's tone with these last few words reflected his own slight disbelief at that development. "I imagine these consultations may taper off as Mr. Barrow becomes more comfortable in the work. I have assured him that he may continue to call on me for advice, at his discretion." He paused. "He is a quick learner, my lady, and wants to do his best. He will serve Downton well."

He made this statement calmly and with a confidence born of his own acceptance, and indeed approval, of its substance. He could not quite pinpoint when it had happened, but sometime in the past few weeks - perhaps it wasn't a single moment that _could_ be identified - he had let go of his sorrow and turned a corner in the whole business. Weeks ago, facing the Dowager, he had been in a dark place, unhappy in his present and uncertain about his future, and had thus been acutely vulnerable to her censure. This time, he was the model of equanimity. Nothing she might say would rattle him.

For a long moment she stared at him and he returned her gaze, not defiantly, but only patiently waiting her response. There was no reading her. She was inscrutable.

"It is a hard lesson for us both, Carson. You have borne the tide of change more bravely than I."

This was unexpected. He briefly bowed his head. "You do yourself a disservice, my lady."

Her face twitched almost imperceptibly in acknowledgment of his courtesy. "And you are satisfied with this resolution?" she asked, giving away nothing in the tone of her voice.

He gave a deep nod. "I am, my lady. I hope I have not disappointed you." It was a sincere desire on his part. However determined he was in this course of action, still he wished for her continued good will. She was one of the few persons in his life whose good opinion he valued.

"You have not disappointed in fifty years' faithful service to the Crawley family, Carson," she said firmly, and he appreciated her emphasis on the word _faithful_ , an indication that her harsh words at their previous interview had been a device. "And you do not disappoint now." She spoke with a gravity that invested her words with an almost regal bearing. "My concern was only ever with the state of your heart and mind, never your labour. I wish only that you should be content."

He nodded again and had to struggle to suppress the smile that tugged at his lips and that would have been inappropriate in so formal a moment. "I am, my lady."

The cast of her features softened a little, revealing that she felt a similar pull on her emotions. "Then _I_ am content, Carson."

They both enjoyed the moment.

"What will you do now?"

The Dowager Lady Grantham had always taken a patrician interest in the lives of those who served the family. This impulse had, in the past, prompted her to intervene with the draft board during the war to prevent the conscription of footman William Mason and valet/butler Joseph Molesley. When William went to war despite her efforts and returned mortally wounded, she had again exercised aristocratic privilege to ensure that he spent his last days at the officers' convalescent home at Downton Abbey, in contravention of military principles, sensitive to both William's comfort and his father's convenience. In the uncertain post-war world she had interceded twice on behalf of the hapless Mr. Molesley. There were many other examples of her largesse. But she had a much greater investment in Carson's well-being, due in part to the longevity of his service but not least because she was also particularly fond of him.

He received this manifestation of interest from her as a matter of course.

"I want to reacquaint myself with the estate, my lady. I knew it well as a boy, but I've not had time for it these many years past. His Lordship and I have been walking it together of late and I want to get to know it again."

She nodded politely.

"I also want to work at being a proper husband," he went on. "Marriage might come more easily to a younger man, but it is all new to me and requires considerable concentration on my part. I have...struggled to get things right," he admitted. "You may perhaps think that silly, my lady."

She drew herself up almost indignantly. "No woman would think ill of a man for wanting to invest himself in his marriage, Carson," she said firmly, and then added, "Mrs. Hughes is a fortunate woman."

" _I_ am the fortunate one, my lady," he said, daring to correct her because he was confident that she would agree with him.

"Yes," she drawled. "You're right, of course."

"And..." He paused. "I thought I might try my hand at something new," he said, watching her carefully.

She raised her head alertly and her eyebrows rose with slight trepidation. "That sounds ominous." It was a little joke they could both appreciate.

"Lady Hexham has suggested I write an article for her magazine."

If he had thought this would startle her, he was mistaken.

"Then you _are_ seriously considering it?" she said swiftly.

He was taken aback. "You know of this, my lady?"

She made an impatient gesture. "I know everything, Carson. None of them can keep a secret. How will you manage the physical aspect of this venture into the realm of _popular_ writing?"

So she did not know everything. He ignored the disdain with which she had invested the word _popular_ because he shared it. It did not surprise him, nor did it offend him, that she should refer so bluntly to his ailment. He - almost always - appreciated her plain-speaking manner.

"Lady Hexham has offered me the services of a stenographer, my lady. That person is coming to Downton next week for a preliminary consultation. If we get on, then we will proceed."

" _Stenographer_ ," Lady Grantham said acidly. "I dislike new words. At least it's not French."

Once more they were in agreement.

"What about Lady Mary's idea of a history of the Crawley family?" she asked abruptly.

His eyes widened, although if she knew about the one, it was hardly surprising she should be aware of the other. "You _are_ well informed, my lady."

She shrugged. "I only wish it had been my idea. What about it, Carson?" she repeated insistently.

He hedged here. With the piece for _The Sketch_ he was dipping his toes into the water. He still had no idea whether or not it _would_ work out. Lady Mary's project was far more ambitious and he was wary of getting in over his head.

"That is a...more complicated matter, my lady. The scope of the work is daunting, as you may imagine. I could not attempt it without physical assistance. How that might be managed..." His uncharacteristic inarticulateness was a device, a not-so-subtle disguising of the critical question at the heart of such an endeavour: who would pay for it?

"But the work is critical, Carson!" she declared vehemently. "It is very much to our purposes!"

"My lady?" He accepted that a family history might have some intrinsic value to the family proper, as Lady Mary had suggested, but he had not seen in it anything quite so definite as a _purpose_.

"Carson," she said, fixing him with an impatient eye and addressing him as though he were a particularly obtuse junior footman, "control the past and you shape the future. History is not neutral. It is the tool of those who dominate the narrative. And the first party to get _their_ story into print gains an insuperable advantage."

He supposed he did see her point, but she seemed almost alarmingly animated about this. It did not occur to him to question her assumption that _his_ account of Crawley history would, of course, accord with _hers_ , because it would.

"I will speak to Lady Mary and His Lordship about this, Carson. This is an enterprise that the family cannot afford to ignore. If it comes to it, I shall pay for your...your _help_...myself."

Carson was inspired by her enthusiasm, but still he wondered. "And you think it that important, my lady?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Really, Carson. We may be losing ground on several fronts, but we don't have to surrender it _all_. History," she added knowingly, "is the long game."

He could only look upon her with admiration. The world would not know her like again. And that, he supposed, was reason enough to take up this project.

"What of Lord Grantham, Carson?"

This sudden redirection of the conversation startled him, but he swiftly reoriented his thoughts. Last time she had voiced her concerns about how Carson's own circumstances might affect her son.

"Lord Grantham" he assured her solemnly, "shall always have my support."

"Yes," she said slowly. "He tells me that he has stepped into the breach opened by Lady Mary's indisposition." She stared at him for a long moment and he saw in her face a look of calculated amusement. "I wonder how much persuading _that_ took."

He discreetly chose not to make a reply and shortly thereafter took his leave from her.

He had entered the Dower House in a state of tranquillity and departed from it not only satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, but also a little excited. He had thought his apology and her forgiveness would be the centrepiece of the interview, but they had passed on so quickly to future considerations that he was still reeling a little from the suddenness of it all. It would take him a little time to digest all the implications.

A more immediate challenge soon absorbed his thoughts as he walked back to the cottage. How, he wondered, was he going to explain this to Elsie?

 **Juggling**

They discussed his meeting with the Dowager over dinner at the cottage later that evening. They had not planned to eat at home together, but he had hastily arranged the meal, prevailing upon Mrs. Patmore to provide them with the mains and making of her an additional request that drove that good woman's eyebrows to their limits. He thought his news worthy of a special effort.

"So how did your conversation with the Dowager go?" she prompted him, as they sat down to eat. She had done the immediate preparations for the meal with the components he had secured, his resourcefulness stretching only so far.

He imparted to her that part of the exchange with the Dowager dealing with his apology, letting the other matter lie until he presented her with the first surprise of the evening. She was pleased by his determination to clear the supper dishes and then somewhat confused when he placed before her the pan with their dessert in it.

"I saw Mrs. Patmore making pies this morning," she said, looking to him for an explanation. "Why would she have made rice pudding, too?"

"She didn't make it," he said, standing proudly at her side. " _I_ did."

"You!" Elsie could not have been more astonished. "My goodness! What brought you to that?"

He supposed her wonder was justified. He had almost nothing to do with the preparation of food in their home. "I'm working at being a better husband," he explained. "Only don't get used to it. Shaky hands are a menace in the kitchen."

She sighed playfully. "You've an ironclad excuse." She served it up for them and he waited, a little anxiously, for her verdict. She savoured her first taste of it. "Well, Charlie Carson," she began, after an excruciatingly long minute, "you've done yourself up proud. I _am_ impressed."

He smiled at her praise, but downplayed the achievement. "I only followed the receipt. _Anyone_ can do that."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Don't let Mrs. Patmore hear you say _that_." She looked up to find him staring at her with a curious look on his face. "What is it?"

"If I'd been braver, we could have had more years together. If I could have seen straighter, I'd have loved you earlier."

"What makes you think I'd have felt the same about you?" she demanded, teasing him.

"Because I'd have wooed you - _properly_ \- and you'd have found me irresistible, Elsie," he said, with all the swaggering confidence of a much younger man.

They laughed. They weren't ones to dwell on the past.

" So was that all the Dowager had to say?"

Well, she asked. So he told her.

She already knew about the idea of a history of the family. They'd discussed it off and on over the last few weeks, though neither had seen any practical route to it. Now, however, it appeared that the Dowager was prepared to arrange the means.

"And this interests you," she said, not really asking. She knew he loved both the Crawleys and history.

With her he could be more open than was ever possible with the Dowager, or anyone else. "I am," he said simply. He frowned a little at the almost resigned look on her face. "Elsie? Are you unhappy about that?" He would not write a word without her approval.

She smiled. "No, of course not. I think it was a job made in heaven for you. It's only..." She shook her head. "Oh dear, I thought the one thing your retirement would mean was that there would be _less_ of the Dowager in our lives. But now she's wormed her way back in, perhaps even more intimately than before. I might have known she'd find some way to keep her talons in you."

"Elsie!"

She wasn't really annoyed and he wasn't really indignant. They both laughed.

"She thinks more of you than you do of her," he said, trying to bring her around with guilt.

Elsie did not succumb to it. "That's not hard," she muttered, and decided it was best to change the subject. "What about this stenographer Lady Hexham is sending to you, Charlie? What sort of person will you get?"

"I don't know." He had given no thought to it.

"Probably someone young, at any rate," she went on. "Lady Hexham's business is a modern enterprise."

He shuddered at the word _modern_. It was another of those troubling words like _change_ and _the future_. But Lady Hexham's commission now seemed the less daunting prospect. "Writing a... _book_...," he was still trying to get his mind around something so immense in scope, "...will mean working with some...you know, stenographer person...a great deal more than the article will require," he said more seriously. This worried him just a little.

"A man or woman?" Elsie asked.

He shrugged. "I would want the best person for the job." He always had.

She thought about it for a minute. "A woman, then, I think."

"What?"

"You'd be more yourself. You know what you're like."

"Elsie!" She had somehow made a business conversation sound a little risqué.

"I'm not suggesting anything improper," she said, rolling her eyes at him.

He was in good humour tonight and it was such a relief to her.

"How will His Lordship get along without you?" she asked, turning the conversation that he might soothe his ruffled feathers.

"Our Monday mornings are sacrosanct," he said solemnly. "And he's busier himself these days, in any case. And I'm glad of that," he added with emphasis. "He is, of course, happier to be more involved with the estate again, but it's meant that our conversations lately have been filled with the details of negotiations over Pipp's Corner and wheat prices. He has not returned to the subject of my past nor made any more irregular requests." He usually related to Elsie the general outlines of his conversations with His Lordship, so she was aware of that unsettling excavation of his dance hall days that His Lordship had undertaken a few weeks ago.

"He gave you his word, Charlie. He wouldn't go back on it."

He conceded that.

They scraped up the last of their rice pudding and this time Elsie got up to put the dishes in the sink. As she did so, a mischievous spirit overtook her, prompted by his remarks about His Lordship. She turned to face him, leaning back against the cupboard.

" _Can_ you juggle, Charlie?"

He groaned. "Don't bring that up!"

"But...can you?"

He glared at her and she knew from the irritated look on his face that he could. Or had once been able to do so.

"Come on, then," she coaxed him. "Show me." And when he made more inarticulate noises of aggravation, her smile only broadened. "I'm your wife. Think of it as a special favour."

This prompted him to draw himself up in his chair as though he were about to make a grave pronouncement. "I am shocked," he said in a clear, cold tone, "that _you_ should be interested in such a vulgar past-time."

This made her laugh aloud. "Oh, Charlie. Vulgar, indeed. Please."

"We've nothing to juggle _with_ ," he said, as if that would put her off.

But she had anticipated that and went rummaging in the cupboard behind her. He groaned again as she filled her arms with potatoes and then delivered them to the table. They rolled in every direction as she dropped them.

"Will these do?" she asked, fixing him with those sparkling eyes he found impossible to resist.

With a sigh, he began to examine the potatoes, picking them up one at a time, looking them over, dividing them according to size. "What I do for you," he muttered, glancing at her darkly.

She sank a hand into his hair, entangling her fingers, and then leaned over to kiss the top of his head. This was a request that needed some encouragement.

"I'll just drop them all, you know," he said, standing up. "I'll be lucky if I get one go-around with them. See," he said, and pointed to Shep, who had come to sit in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Oh, never mind him," Elsie said. "He likes raw potatoes. I just want to see you try."

He picked up four potatoes, all of them roughly the same size, and then took another one to make five. Looking at her, he shrugged. "I might as well drop one more in the bargain."

It had been such a long time. He weighed the potatoes in his hands, shifted them from one hand to the other, _thought_ about it. He gave a few preliminary tosses and then it seemed to come back to him and he threw the potatoes, one after another into the air. They all circulated once. He caught them all and then missed the next and in a moment there were potatoes flying in every direction. Shep made an uncharacteristic leap to catch one in mid-air and then retreated quickly into the hallway, lest anyone try to take it away from him.

But neither Elsie nor Charlie were paying him any attention. As the potatoes scattered in different directions, she burst into laughter. After a few seconds watching her holding her sides as she convulsed in merriment, he began to laugh, too. He dusted off his hands and then reached for her, drawing her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her. When she had regained some semblance of self-control, she put her hands up to his face and leaned up to kiss him. Such a display required a reward.

When at length they relaxed and could look at each other again, she gazed on him with wonder. She had known him so well and for so long and yet he could still surprise.

He bent his head to hers again and she thought he might renew their kiss. Instead he spoke softly in her ear.

"Tell _no one_ ," he said.

 **THE END**


End file.
